


Hearts are strong, Hearts are kind

by aRegularJo



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, crazy kids, fluff fluff fluff, these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 146,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aRegularJo/pseuds/aRegularJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because someone had to write it. Interconnected series of DonxSloan fluff. COMPLETE. I did it I did it I really really did it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. So this ... Is fluff. A whole lot of it, wrapped thick in dialogue. These stories started as me working through the characters, getting to know their voices, and filling in their back stories for a much longer piece, with actual plot, that I'm working on ("thicker than forget" for those who care). But these started to take over and are just so delightful and quick and easy that I thought I would share. 
> 
> I'm unclear how quickly I'll be updating, and I doubt that they will follow a chronological order. They presume that Don and Sloan start dating in November/December of 2011, but the dates rarely matter, and moving forward I kind of assume that in the farther-future pieces, Genoa happened, though it won't come up directly here. Basically, I'm distracting you from the timeline holey-ness with fluff. You're welcome.
> 
> Title is from Ray LaMontagne's "You Are the Best Thing." I've been listening to him a lot as I think about the Newsroom. Characters are not mine. Many details from the back stories (Nobel Prize in economics, a dad who yells at squirrels, a dad with a long-term mistress) are freely and cavalierly borrowed from Sorkin with love as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> August 2013 A/N: Hey there. So this ... Is fluff. A whole lot of it, wrapped thick in dialogue. These stories started as me working through the characters, getting to know their voices, and filling in their back stories for a much longer piece, with actual plot, that I'm working on. But these started to take over and are just so delightful and quick and easy that I thought I would share. I'm unclear how quickly I'll be updating, and I doubt that they will follow a chronological order. They presume that Don and Sloan start dating in November/December of 2011 (so, in show parlance, super-soon). I have every expectation that canon will run roughshod over them (potentially starting tonight), but I'm OK with that.
> 
> Title is from Ray LaMontagne's "You Are the Best Thing." I've been listening to him a lot as I think about the Newsroom. Characters are not mine. Many details from the back stories (Nobel Prize in economics, a dad who yells at squirrels, a dad with a long-term mistress) are freely and cavalierly borrowed from Sorkin with love as well.
> 
> November 2014 A/N: Hey guys, me again. Just going though and updating everything for consistency, and adding some of my own commentary on where the characters were to each. Nothing new to see here! But if you want to read again, feel free. This is my favorite piece I've ever written, and I hope you enjoy~Jo.

Both of us have known love before

To come on on promising, like a spring, then walk on out the door

Our hearts are strong and our, our hearts are kind

Let me tell you just exactly what is on my mind

-Ray LaMontagne, "You Are the Best Thing"

The thing about this thing with Sloan is that once they actually determine that it's a thing, it's a big thing that doesn't seem like a big thing, which makes it almost a bigger thing (granted, determining that it's a thing does take a while, and is kind of awkward). His relationship with Maggie always felt a little like two pieces from the same puzzle that looked like they should snap together but didn't, and the effort to try and make them go together was always kind of exhausting. But in his normal state of stupidity, he equated that feeling of effort — and he had never worked so hard in a relationship before — with something being a Big Thing (capital letters intentional).

But with Sloan, things just settle. Six weeks after he drunkenly kisses her during marathon coverage of Syria and the Greek economic collapse and the presidential race, he's buying kale and she's stocking his favorite beer, and things are so low-key that most of the office — his ex, in particular — doesn't seem to know what's going on. It's certainly not a secret — they come in and leave together often enough — but if he kisses her at work, it's in an office. Mac squeezes his arm once and says, out of the blue, "This is good for you. For both of you," and Elliot seems to think he's nicer and appreciates that, but otherwise it's barely acknowledged.

He likes this. It's refreshing, to know where you stand in a relationship and where you want to stand in the relationship. It makes everything else so much easier, and more comfortable, and almost even empowering. It feels adult, and he's strangely not scared of the commitment. He's should be scared, but isn't, and that's kind of awesome.

So when he pops into her office to see what she's doing for lunch (which is early dinner, given their schedules) and she answers, "Going out with my mom, actually — I forgot she's in town for work," his first response is, "Can I come meet her?"

She cocks her head and the papers the folder she's holding slide out as her grip goes lax. As she starts to gather them up, she says, "Don — you've got a full — she's only in town for a few — you want to meet my mother?" She's skeptical-stunned at that.

And the goddamn thing is, he really, really does. He's seen her photo on Sloan's bookshelf, with her three sisters and her dad, and he wants to get to know her, and make her like him, and get to figure out more about what makes Sloan Sloan. He knows that her mother is Asian — Japanese, he assumes, given Sloan's command of the language — and very, very short, especially next to her very, very tall, very, very WASPy father. And that's it. That's all he knows. "Yeah. I do, actually. What's she in town for?"

"A conference," Sloan repeats, brow furrowed, as she continues to arrange the papers. More amused than exasperated, he gently takes them from her hands to alphabetize them for her, so that she'll look at him. She rests her hands on her lower back, appraising him.

"Oh yeah? What's she do?" he asks, tapping the stack of papers vertically on the desk before handing them back to her.

"She's a lawyer," she says, tucking the paper underneath her arm.

"What type of lawyer?"

"Human rights law," Sloan replies. She puts down the papers and moves to grab her trench coat, and he follows her. "She describes herself as a sex-positive feminist legal activist."

"Excuse me?" he asks, because he is not expecting that.

"She mostly focuses on sexual issues — women's rights to abortion, safe prenatal care, to not be sold into sex slavery, condoms in third-world countries..."

"Sex."

"Sex," she states matter-of-factly. "That thing we do, about five to eight times a week, usually at night except for weekends, depending on if you fall asleep with your computer or not?"

"That was one time, and — seriously?"

"Yes. She grew up in San Francisco in the Sixties. Kind of inevitable, I guess."

"What's your dad do again?" Because it's beginning to be clear he's going to have to seriously prep for meeting him.

"He's an economist," she raises a shoulder at his raised eyebrows. "My upbringing was not weird at all."

"Do you not want me to meet your mom? Because it's completely fine if you don't," and he means that.

She chooses her words carefully. "The last guy — the only guy, actually — that my mother has met was Topher," she starts, referring to the scummy stockbroker ex-fiance she broke up with three and a half years ago. "And Topher didn't meet either of my parents until we'd been dating for a year. And he met my dad first, and my dad is much less scary. So knowing that, if you don't want to meet her, I understand —"

"That's not what I asked," he interrupts, taking a step into her space. "I know this is a thing, meeting the mom, I know that's a thing. And if you don't want to do that thing yet, I get it. That's OK. I just want you to know that when you want me to, I would like to meet your mom." He doesn't know where these words are coming from — god only knows he's never felt this way about meeting anyone else's mom, and if he knew that today was the day he was going to feel this way, he would've put on a newer flannel shirt and maybe even tried to do something with his hair — but whatever. He means it. He wants this.

She starts to break out into one of those crazy whole-face smiles he doesn't get enough of, and he starts to grin back because he knows she'll say OK, and instead of waiting for words he just pulls her hips to him and starts kissing her. But before it gets very fair, the door opens, and she jumps back, surprised, "Mom! Hi," she steps away from Don, and he swallows a smirk and shoves his hands in his pockets, because that wasn't how he actually envisioned meeting her mom. "I thought I told you to meet me at the restaurant."

"You did," her mother says breezily. "But my hotel was right around the corner, so I thought, hey! Why don't I see where my important and successful daughter seems to spend all her time," she smiles at him, a hint of bite at the corners. "Now I think I know why she spends so much time here, though."

"Mom, this is Don Keefer, the executive producer of Right Now With Elliot Hirsch …" she trails off. "And my ... boyfriend," she checks with him, testing out the word, and he shrugs in agreement. It's what he is. There's tacit agreement, and there's no time to date anyone else, and they spend every night together, but he actually doesn't think he's heard her use that phrase yet. "Don, my mother, Nanami Sabbith."

"Call me Nami," she says, holding out a hand. She is tiny, with a Hillary Clinton-type coif and a Hillary Clinton-type pantsuit. He suspects that she probably actually knows Hillary Clinton. Sloan, who is not that tall, towers over her in her three-inch heels. "Will you be joining us for what my daughter refers to as lunch?"

"Well, I would like to," he says. "If that's alright with you." He feels the need to ask her permission.

"Of course. I look forward to learning more about you. Or anything about you, really, given that I didn't know you existed until I saw you tonguing Sloan," she smiles too pleasantly, and he is a little scared.

"We should get going, then," Sloan says quickly. "We both need to be back by seven." He helps her put her coat on, and then holds the door for them, because he would like to make a good first impression. Her mother leads the way out, and as he puts his arm around her, she twists to whisper in his ear: "Remember she will gladly explain, in detail, the process of female circumcision. Do not ask her about her work unless you want details."

He's turned his own face so that the chances of her being overheard are diminished, and as they're walking down the corridor like this, all twisted up and cheek-to-cheek and secret-y, he notices Maggie. He doesn't even have time to make eye contact with her, but she stops in her tracks and he can see her putting two and two together. But soon enough they're out the door, and Sloan, who has slipped her hand between their bodies to take his, starts directing her mother the two blocks to Sushi Zen. Sloan makes small talk about the conference, asks about her mother's presentation, and suddenly they're at the restaurant.

"Your father and I had dinner with Spencer last weekend," Nami says as they take their seats. "Brent is going to be transferred to the D.C. branch soon, they think. They're coming out next month to look at houses."

"I can't imagine Spence in winter," Sloan says, in a forcefully cheery voice. "She's the most stereotypical California girl."

"You lived in New York for a while, though, right?" he asks, surreptitiously putting his hand on her thigh, though he's pretty sure Nami notices. Still, Sloan relaxes. He knew that she'd gone to high school in California, but got the feeling she grew up in New York.

"We did, but left when she was in first grade for Japan, and then we moved to California when she was in sixth grade. And she moved to L.A. for college and hasn't left since. I don't think she's owned a winter jacket since the early Nineties."

"She hasn't," Nami says, smiling. "I don't even know if she owns gloves. So, Don, do you have any siblings?"

"Three, two brothers and a sister," he says. "Mitch works in real estate in Philadelphia, where we grew up. He's got three kids. Adam's a freshman at Cornell, and Lily's a sophomore in high school."

"Much younger," Nami observes, snapping her chopsticks apart.

"Half-siblings," he amends.

"Your parents are divorced?" she asks.

"No, my dad had a heart attack." He decides he should probably tell the whole story, though, so he amends, "But Adam and Lily are his kids anyways. I didn't know about them until they were in elementary school and he had passed away." Sloan actually doesn't know this part, and her hand moves to cover his. "Great kids, though."

Nami raises her eyebrow. "Sounds like an admirable move."

He shrugs. "It was easier to get to know them than to be angry at a dead guy. So," he cracks open his menu. "What should we order?"

Sushi Zen is their go-to because it's quick, and he manages to make Nami laugh four times during her interrogation, which he considers a success. He decides he likes Nami: she's sharp, very observant and aware, and wants the best for her daughter, even though she made a few jokes at Sloan's expense. She's much more outgoing than Sloan, and even more direct, if that is possible. Nami asks a thousand too-personal questions (how working together affected their jobs, whether or not he'd ever been arrested, details about his first relationship) but he can tell Sloan loves her mom a lot. He pays, which pleases Nami and makes Sloan roll her eyes.

As they're walking back, Nami announces her intention to stay through the show and watch, which Sloan seems to have no choice but to agree to. Once they're back at ACN, though, he has to go work with his team for Elliot's show while Sloan needs to prep for NewsNight. Nami gives him a hug and makes it clear that she will be stopping by to say good-bye later — he presumes after she's cross-examined Sloan.

Post-rundown, he's catching up on the 98 emails he received while gone and looking at the final draft of the night's script, four cable networks humming in the background of his office, when a shadow crosses his door. Assuming it's one of his APs, he yells, "Yo! No locks here!"

Instead of one of his APs, though, it's one of Mac's: Maggie. Crappity-crap-crap-crap. "Hey," she says, wringing her wrists as she stands in his doorway.

And even though he knows exactly what she wants, he goes, "Mags. What's up?"

She nods her whole body a few times before speaking. "Not much," she says.

"I saw you guys got Gingrich's spox, nice get," he says, tapping his pen.

"Will's excited," she says, almost automatically. "I just — I had a wondering. I saw — I saw you and Sloan and a woman who looked a lot like Sloan but older, and I'm not just saying that because she's Asian and Sloan is somewhat Asian, I actually didn't know Sloan was Asian until Neal said so. But they actually had very similar noses and cheek structure —"

"That was Sloan's mother," he cuts in, knowing that these things could last forever. "Her mother's in town for work."

"Oh. That was, in fact, my first logical deduction," Maggie says, hesitant and blushing. "And you and Sloan —"

"We were taking her mom out to dinner before the show."

"And that was my second logical deduction, based on the time and that you were wearing jackets. You were both taking her out, though—"

He decides to just confront it. Letting her dangle might sound satisfying, given how their relationship ended, but it's really not. "We were both taking her out because Sloan and I are dating and I thought I should get to know her mom."

"Wow," Maggie says, taken aback. "That was —I mean, that was my third logical deduction, but I mean — you said that. Out loud. Pretty normally. In a normal tone of voice, I mean."

He decides to give her another break. "Yeah. We've been seeing each other for a while now."

"A while," Maggie trails off, because the time between September and January really isn't that much of a while.

"For about six weeks."

"So actually not that much of a while," Maggie says.

He shrugs. "Depends on the definition, Maggie."

"True. Are you … That's great, first. Sloan's great."

"Thanks," he says, because Sloan is awesome, but he adds, apologetically, "We've kind of been keeping it a bit under wraps, because, you know, the work environment."

"Me," she says flatly.

"You. Will. Mac. Elliot. Charlie wouldn't be super-thrilled, I'll bet. Sloan is sometimes is on my show. A lot of things make up the work environment, so because of those lots of things we decided to, you know, not make out in the control room."

"You know, I thought it was weird you were coming in so early. And that she was staying so late. So you guys are coming in together and leaving together, which means you're spending every night together, and you're meeting her mom after six weeks. That's … that's really serious. That's, like, a serious commitment. A really fast serious commitment, I mean, you didn't want to meet my parents after four months —"

"Maggie, isn't your show on the air?" They really don't need to go down this road.

"You're right. It is," she says, then straightens her spine, which can only mean one of her Girl Friday speeches. He used to find them adorable, now he just finds them tiring. "Anyways. I'm — I'm never going to be able to actually make up for the way I treated you and how … how I messed everything up. But I'm … really happy that you're happy. I really, really am."

"Maggie," he breaks in, "We weren't working. We weren't. At all. It was scary, how fucking bad we were at the end. I mean — it was over before I asked you to move in with me. Asking you … that was desperate, of me. We were so fucked up. I wanted it, to work, with you, really badly, but just because I wanted it to work. And instead of talking about it and trying to work out, or, you know, cutting loose … I wanted it to work, and it wasn't. We stayed together too long. We wanted to be more serious than we actually were. And that was mostly my fault. So I'm sorry. So … quit beating yourself up about that."

Maggie flails a little bit. Finally, she just says, "Thank you." He nods and smiles and she starts to leave and he gets back to his script, when she turns around and says, "Actually, can I ask you one more thing?"

He leans back in his chair, because she is clearly not leaving until he listens to her, and says, "If you don't think Mac will kill you for not doing your job, sure."

"Is it me?"

"Is what you?"

"Me. Is this because of me?"

"Me and Sloan? No." He really doesn't want to get into it, because he is Capital-H Happy. Sloan is harder to date than Maggie, in a lot of ways, but also much, much easier. Sloan is a more challenging person, for him, than Maggie. She sometimes says inappropriate things — she said I love you waitnoItakethatback after their second real date — and she works too hard, and doesn't back down from an argument, and she's smarter than him and somehow more stubborn, and she's sometimes distant and hard to read and doesn't really like to relax. But the relationship itself is a lot simpler. He's not worried about how she feels about him, or that she might like another guy more, or that he's somehow not giving her what she needs. The biggest argument they've had thus far is when she wanted to use his legs to keep her freezing-cold feet warm, and he just wanted her to put a damn pair of socks on. He knows they'll have a bigger fight, eventually, but he and Maggie could fight about every damn thing. He doesn't know if it's age — Christ, he's 34 — or the experience of having dated Maggie, or their personalities, but the actual act of being with Sloan is much easier. It just feels ... more equal.

"No, of course not," she replies, and the way she rolls her eyes, he's almost offended. "Us. And … Jim. And Lisa. It's just lately, I kind of feel like I'm the type of person that repels perfectly nice people."

"You're a perfectly nice person," he says, wishing he could do his work.

"I know!" she says. "I buy coffee for homeless guys and volunteer at soup kitchens on Thanksgiving. But that's different. Do I keep pushing people away?"

"I just said that the end of our relationship was both of our faults. I would recommend you leave it at that."

"Right, but I moved in with you instead of breaking up with you, even though I knew I had … feelings toward Jim. But you're meeting Sloan's mom after six weeks of dating, when you would barely say hi to my parents after four months. Jim went on the campaign trail to get away from me. Lisa got a subletter on Craigslist that smells like bananas and moved to Bushwick."

"Jim went on the campaign trail because, as I recall, you told him and an entire bus full of crazy tourists that you wanted to break up with me for him and then you changed your mind," he says, getting irritated. "And then you lied to his girlfriend about everything. So yeah, in those examples? You don't look so hot. I don't get what you're trying to ask me though."

"Do I drive people away?"

He sighs, pushing down his pen. "Look, let's take you and me off the table, because you apologized and I apologized and we're moving on and I'm happy," he emphasizes the happy. "And with Jim and Lisa — you gotta ask them. And you have to figure out what you really want, and how you want to say it. Because guys? In general? Don't do well with indecision. They need things in black and white. We're simple that way. OK? Now, go do work. Your show is, like, half over."

She's a little struck. "You really like her, don't you?"

He pauses. "Go, Maggie."

She finally leaves, thank God, and he finishes the script, calls two field producers to confirm their times and finds his graphics editors to check out their work. Then he wanders down to watch Sloan's piece from behind the TelePrompTer (no way he's going into the control room with Mama Nami), notes for Elliot's segments in hand. As Sloan hops off the chair post-segment, she catches his eye and smiles.

"Looking good up there," he says, following her as she struts off.

"You came in to hear me say about three sentences," she retorts as they head to her office.

"All of which were highly intelligent insights into the Greek economy. Where's your mom?" he says, looking around behind him.

"She'll want to finish watching the show. She has a thing for Will."

"Did you tell Mac?" he jokes as she flips on the lights in her office.

"Her 'thing' is that she wants to ask him questions about his relationship with his father and whether or not his mother hugged him enough as a child."

He winces. Less cool. "Speaking of psychoanalysis, how do you think dinner with your mom went?"

She kicks off her shoes and sits on the edge of her desk, smirking. "Well, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She thought I looked satisfied."

"Why wouldn't you be satisfied? You have a job you like, a killer apartment …"

She cocks her head. "Not that kind of satisfied, Stanley Straightlaced."

Oh. "Oh. You mean — like, wow. What did she say, exactly?"

"'Sloan, he seems nice. You look very satisfied,'" Sloan recites as he reddens. "Seriously. You're really lucky you missed my mother's Sex Ed 101. It involved props." As he's trying to imagine what that possibly entails, she grabs her gym bag from her desk and sheds her blazer jacket and skirt, exchanging them for a pair of black jeans and a Duke zip-up over her navy cami. "Is your show locked down yet?" She yanks her hair back in a clear 'going home, want bed,' do, and pulls her ACN News cap on top.

"Mostly. Are you going to stick around?"

"Mmm, I kind of want to head home early and watch from the comfort of bed? My mom exhausted me," she looks up from pulling on her boots. "Is that OK?"

Though Maggie says they come in together regularly, the actually don't do it super-frequently, since Sloan gets in freakishly early to go to the gym. But she has honestly stayed through the end of his show every night, or met him at Hang Chew's, since spending the night together went from periodic to frequent to a matter of course. Besides being just nice having her close, this has also meant that they haven't exchanged keys. He knows her laundry is in his machine and her leftover cheesecake is in his fridge, so they're definitely going there tonight. But she doesn't have a key.

"Yeah, sure," he says, pulling out his key ring clumsily. " Here. I should — I'll make you one tomorrow. You should have a key."

She laughs, a little awkwardly, sifting the keys into her fingers. They clink. "That would be the practical thing to do."

He kisses her. "Sounds good. Should I say good-bye to your mom?"

She checks the clock. "Yeah, if want to. And if you've got a minute." She raises her eyebrows apologetically. "Though you really shouldn't, since you should have a job to do."

He puts his hands on her shoulders and spins her out of the room. "All the time in the world."

"That's not comforting," she replies. "You're a decently important person."

"So I probably have 90 seconds. But I've already given Elliot his text for approval. I am ahead of the curve tonight."

"Look at you, all star," she teases, pushing open the door to the control room. Will is wrapping up for the evening, and Nami is standing close to Mac.

"Hey Mom. What'd you think of the show?"

"There's a great deal more pacing than I anticipated," she remarked. She looked at Don. "Do you pace when you're producing a show, Don?"

"Oh yeah. One time Sloan caused me to basically throw my headset."

"Wait when was that? I'm fantastic."

He stares at her. "Are you kidding me? Fukushima?"

"Oh. Yeah, that was not such a good night." She grimaced. "Anyways, Mom, I wanted to introduce to Will, and then I'll take you back to your hotel, how's that sound?"

"Yeah, and I have to get ready for the 10 o'clock, but I just wanted to say that it was great to meet you."

"It was nice to meet you as well, Don. I will be accompanying my husband back to New York next month; hopefully we will see you then."

"Oh, yeah? What brings you back east?"

"Sloan's father will be testifying in front of the U.N. Economic and Social Council on sustainable economic development models."

He's a little taken aback, and makes a note to google her father. "Wow. That sounds exciting. We'll see you then," he smiles. "Alright, I gotta run."

"See you later," Sloan says, and he kisses her cheek.

As they watch them walk out, Mac punches him in the shoulder. "She likes you! She really, really likes you!"

"Please, try and sound more surprised," he says dryly. He really has to go find Elliot.

"I'm happy! Whose idea was dinner? That was big. This is good, Don. This is so good."

"You're like a British Laker Girl, you know."

"I could do a jig," she crows. "I called it! I am like Vanna White, revealing truth."

He stares at her. "That's a terrible metaphor," he says.

"Not my best," she agrees.

"Question," he asks. "Sloan's father — do you know what he does, exactly?"

She stares at him. "You've heard of microfinance?"

"Of course," he says.

"He made it scalable, among a few other things," she says. "So he won the Nobel Prize. He's also the dean of Stanford's business school and the former head of Goldman Sachs' Asia offices. Joseph Stiglitz is her godfather. Both Ben Bernanke and Paul Krugman were in her parents' wedding. It was probably the last time they actually got along, man."

He stares. "How did I not know this?"

"I don't know," Mac replies. "It's on her Wikipedia page."

"I'm not going to wikipedia my … Sloan."

"Your Sloan?" Mac smirks at his reluctance to say girlfriend, which is entirely predicated on the fact that they are still in the control room. "And there you go. That's why you didn't know."

"She said he was less scary!"

"Well, yeah, because she's his favorite," Mac reasons. "And they just kind of talk economic policy in Japanese the whole time, according to her. For everyone else he's probably a little intimidating, though."

He rolls his eyes. "Just a little. I'm going to get Elliot ready."

Elliot is already sitting in the chair, reviewing his notes, since Terri's show is routed out of Washington. "Did you know Sloan's dad had a Nobel Prize in Economics?" he asks without preamble.

Without looking up, Elliot says, "Well, yeah. It's on her Wikipedia page."

"I give up," Don mutters.

He heads home as soon as he can that night, texting Sloan to unlock the door shortly before midnight. He finds her (as he could have predicted) already in the bedroom, one of his commandeered flannel button-downs and her trendy hipster glasses on, two economic journals (her 'bedtime reading') and four newspapers around her (only two in English), her laptop open, the TV on, tea and the half-eaten piece of cheesecake on the floor on her side of the bed.

"Good show," she smiles. "Elliot did really well with the phone hacking story."

"Thanks," he says, stropping down to his boxers and climbing into the bed next to her. "What do we have here?" He picks up one of the newspapers written in Japanese and pretends to read it. She curls up and puts her chin on his shoulder as she reads the text to him, in Japanese. After a few paragraphs he turns and kisses her temple. "How long did you guys live in Japan?" he says.

"Five years," she says. "Fourth grade through eighth grade for me. And then I did a year abroad there in college and two, altogether, during my Ph.D."

"Your two Ph.D.s," he says.

"Yeah, but I did them concurrently," she says, as if that makes it somehow less impressive that she has a doctorate in economics and another in finance.

"What was it like, living there?"

She shrugs. "Depends on the time. When we were younger, it was just like being in America, except for family vacations we would go to Indonesia."

"Did you go to a Japanese school?" he thinks about the ones he's seen, the long rows of miserable-looking students.

"God no. We went to the international lycee — except for the Japanese class, our classes were all in French and English, one day English, one day French. We had to go to Japanese school all day on Saturdays, though. I hated it."

"You got fluent with once a week lessons?"

"The lessons were just for reading and writing. We always spoke it at home, even when we were living in the U.S. It was important for my mother."

"Did she grow up in Japan?" he hadn't detected an accent.

"No," she sighs. "Her mom was born in Japan, but moved to San Francisco in the 30s. Her dad was born in the U.S. to Japanese immigrants. They were both raised in exclusively Japanese communities, and they met while they were in the camps."

"The internment camps."

"Yeah. So they raised my mom and her brothers to be fluent in Japanese, as kind of a fuck you, I think. Then my dad learned Japanese starting in high school, so we all spoke Japanese growing up. When my dad got the job in Japan, they thought it would be good for us," she cocks her head. "Why all the questions?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I liked meeting your mom today."

"She really liked you," she says. "I didn't know about your dad. You didn't have to tell her." She leans back slightly, puts a thin arm on the headboard. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped her."

"It's not your fault, I never told you," he says reasonably. She's patient and waits for him to continue. "He had a development business, he built malls around Philadelphia in the 70s and 80s. He and my mom got married because they were Catholic and she got pregnant with Mitch. They were never particularly happy together," he sighs. "I'm pretty sure he cheated throughout their marriage, but his relationship with Gina was pretty permanent — about 12 years, I think. They broke up when their kids were little and Mitch and I were in college, and he died a few years later. She came to the funeral, turns out my mom knew about her … Yeah. It wasn't pretty," he sighs. "Adam was nine, Lily was six."

"And you wanted to have a relationship with them?"

"I mean, we all hated him for it. My mom was just … devastated. And I figured … I thought we would still hate him, and that wouldn't be good since it would just make everyone miserable. But if we got to know them as real people, kids are generally cool — you know, when they're not being brats — and that way I wouldn't hate them or my dad. Plus Gina was pretty freaking overwhelmed — even though they'd split a few years earlier, my dad had still been providing for them, and then he didn't put them in his will, obviously. So she needed all the free babysitting they could get."

She kisses him softly. "That was … That's awesome. How are they now?"

"They're good. My mom still isn't crazy about them, but both she and Gina have remarried, or married, in Gina's case, so that makes it easier. They basically treat each other as their ex-husband's other ex-wife. Mitch took the longest to warm up to them. He had just gotten engaged when Dad died, and I think it kind of took a lot out of him, you know? But Melanie really helped him through that, and now Lily babysits for their kids. Adam's at Cornell. He's pretty much a bro — he played lax in high school, wants to go to law school, pledged Kappa Sig, looks really stupid in popped collars a lot. But he's a good kid. Lily's a lot artsier. She wants to go to NYU and drink a lot of coffee, you know? Her nails are either neon green or black and she writes really bad poetry but is actually pretty good artist."

They've rarely talked about family or friends, have just had this really insular, intense relationship, one that's their apartments and Hang Chew's and ACN and sometimes a really expensive Japanese place, and he honestly knows very little beyond what he knew before they started dating. It's nice. He wants to learn more. "What about your sisters? There are three, right?"

"Yeah," she rolls her eyes. "I'm the oldest. Spencer is two years younger than I am. She's the one that can't handle cold weather. She went to UCLA, did Teach For America right out of college. She's the founding principal at an all-girls high school in South L.A. now. Her husband, Brent, is a lawyer. They have a two-year old daughter, Hanna. They want a big family, so we keep expecting them to announce they're pregnant again. And then there are the twins … Sutton and Sawyer."

"Sloan, Spencer, Sutton, and Sawyer Sabbith," he winces.

"My maternal grandmother is an old-school WASP — Miss Porter's, Radcliffe, DAR. Plus, once you have a Sloan and a Spencer you can't just have a Hillary or an Alex, you know? So, Sutton and Sawyer," she laughs. "They're the youngest — they just turned twenty-five," she sighs. "I barely know them. Sutton just started medical school, at Harvard. She did the Peace Corps right out of Brown. She wants to cure infectious diseases. Sawyer is getting a law degree at Yale, after getting a Master's in engineering at MIT. She wants to run for office some day."

"So if your mom is the scary one, what's your dad like?"

She wrinkles her nose. "He's a lot like me, I think. Give him an econ journal and he's happy for hours. Mom is definitely in charge of everything at home. Dad's a bit of a dork — he's lived in California for almost 20 years but he doesn't have a clue who the Kardashians are. He works too much. When he's not working, he likes to play golf. He rolls his own sushi while wearing a kimono and gardens and collects wine bottles and likes first editions of Dickens. He's this goofball academic in dad jeans, yelling at the squirrels in the gutters."

"And he's the dean at Stanford's business school?"

She's quiet. "Did you read my Wikipedia page or talk to Kenzie?"

"Both," he admits, because he did scroll through her Wikipedia page during a pre-taped segment during Elliot's show.

"Yeah. I mean, he works hard, is really smart, and loves what he does. And a lot of unexpected, good stuff followed."

"Nobel Prize is pretty good stuff."

"I swear, you meet him, and the first three things he'll talk about are the squirrels in the gutters, Hanna, and how my mother called his secretary and got the candy bowl replaced with a fruit bowl."

"And the fourth?"

"How to solve poverty in Africa."

"He probably has some pretty good ideas."

"He thinks he does," she laughs, then reconsiders. "He does." She leans over to kiss him, and he starts unbuttoning the buttons on her (his) shirt to slide his hands down around her hips.

"So he's coming to town in a few months."

She pulls back, slightly annoyed. "Ok, A — I didn't know that till my mom mentioned it today and B — seriously? Your hand is down my shirt and you want to talk about my dad?" She shoves his shoulder. "Not cool."

He laughs, flipping them as he works the shirt off her shoulders. "Won't happen again," he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentary: So this was actually the very first piece of "Newsroom" fic I wrote, even before the two one-shots I posted six years ago (hyperbole). I started it even before the second season premiered and now, looking back at how my writing style has evolved, I'm almost a little embarrassed at how clunky and thin a lot of it reads to me. I still like this, because the Don/Sloan interaction is solid, but a lot of the character notes (esp. Maggie and Mac) feel horribly off (I totally tried to tweak them, but not significantly).
> 
> I always knew this would be the first one I posted because I wanted to get a lot of the exposition about their families out of the way (usually, I wrote out of order; for instance, I wrote the last one posted probably eighth or ninth but held it till the end). I wanted to do that both to lay the groundwork for the rest of the story, but also as a shorthand for how serious they've gotten so quickly: Particularly for Don, this isn't something he talks about with just anyone (in the headcanon, he never even brought up most of this to Maggie, for instance). And Sloan is clearly loathe to introduce her parents to anyone post-fiance, which I think is pretty clear here. So it went first to help us dive right in. And from a writing standpoint, it also helped me learn a lot about these two characters as they were going to be in this piece.
> 
> One of my major aims in writing each of these oneshots was to start (usually) with something that should be a significant milestone in a relationship, like meeting the mother, and subvert that by having the oneshot really be about something else. In this case, meeting Nami wasn't necessarily the important event, but the conversation they have in bed about their families — quiet, private, and accompanied by cheesecake — is the bigger, relationship-solidifying event. It's one of those quiet, solemn moments that, I hope, becomes very foundational to their relationship by sealing their bond. In that way, it's also foundational to this piece.


	2. June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: Hey all! Thanks so much for the great response to the first installment of these one-shots. I'm super happy there are other Sloan/Don fans out there. This one takes place in approximately June 2013, so a few years in the future of both the show and the first one shot (There will be others that fill in what happens between winter 2011 and this piece, don't worry). When this one takes place, a few things have changed between Sloan and Don, which will be readily explained :).
> 
> Hopefully will have another one up later this week, and am still slowly plugging away at the longer piece these feed into. In the meantime, feel free to check out 'Smug' and 'Let's Get Ready to Rumble,' my Sloan/Don season 2 filler pieces!
> 
> As per usual, I own nothing. References and characters freely borrowed with love. ~Jo.

Close your brown eyes

And lay down next to me

Close your eyes, lay down

Cause there goes the fear

Let it go

-"There Goes the Fear," The Doves

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Sloan stares at the three little sticks, as if their tiny symbols were going to change through her telekinetic powers. Nope. Still all the same.

Fuck. She knew she should be asking how the hell this happened, but she was pretty sure she already knew: The 20-hour plane ride to Thailand for their honeymoon last month, plus the time difference, meant she'd taken her pill at the wrong time. Hell, it probably meant she'd taken multiple pills at the wrong time. She had never been good with time changes. Her mother would find this hilarious.

She exits their bathroom numbly, heading to the kitchen. Wine would be great right now, but is obviously out of the question. She roots around for some non-caffeinated tea and somehow manages to brew it without burning herself. She sits on the new couch, flipping through an old issue of The Economist to focus her. At least the kitchen renovation is done now — she's pretty sure that the fumes wouldn't be good for a baby.

Baby. Christ. She and Don had talked about kids a few times, of course, were clear on the fact that, eventually, yeah, one or two would probably be nice. In the future. They had barely been married six months. This child would be born after seventeen months of marriage, give or take. They had made it from September to freaking May before getting knocked up. And it's not the time — she just started her new show three weeks ago. She wasn't the type of woman to stress about her biological clock; had assumed they would have years before thinking about this decision. She, in fact, had always had a sneaking suspicion that she had a hostile uterus. She didn't know why; she just did. Apparently not.

She's on her third issue of the Economist, still sipping the herbal tea, when Don comes home. "Sloan?" he calls, worried. "I thought we were meeting at Hang Chew's — everything alright?"

"Yeah," she says quickly, sitting up. "I just got there and got tired, so I came home."

"Oh. You didn't text, so I stopped by there and ordered a drink before I realized —"

"No, it's fine. It was silly of me." Truthfully, Kenzie's bitching about cramps and 'reminders of womanhood' and how it was 'so unfair since it's not like Will and I want children; we might have had one six years ago but certainly not now, since stupid Will McAvoy ruined me,' had cued Sloan up to do some math, and then immediately spit her gin and tonic out on the counter before running out to go to Duane Reade. "The show looked good."

"Yeah," he says, cocking his head at her. "Are you alright? You're acting a little …"

"A little what?"

"Defensive?" he tries, trying to find a non-offensive way of saying 'weird.'

She opens her mouth to speak, but can't, and he goes, "Okay, Sloan, words."

"IthinkI'mpregnant," she tries.

"What now?"

"I said, I think I'm pregnant," she tries more slowly. At his stunned look, she says, "With a child."

"Whoa. What —" he says, sinking down on the couch next to her, removing his tie and loosening his blue-and-white checkered shirt. His jaw is hanging open. Subconsciously she throws her calves over his lap and he begins to massage them, almost rotely. "I … Not what I thought you were going to say," he smiles, and she gets the feeling that he's actually excited, or going to be excited pretty soon, and she relaxes slightly.

"What did you think I was going to say?"

"I honestly had not thought that far in advance, but safe to say not that," he squeezes her knee gently. "That's amazing. How sure are you?"

"There are three tests in the bathroom that all say yes."

"Wow," he breathes. "How far … How? When?" he has this glazed-over, can't-believe-it look on his face, like someone just gave him irrefutable proof that Santa is real.

"I think it was Thailand," she says. "The flying, the time change, I'm pretty sure I didn't take a lot of the pills when I was supposed to. I need to make an appointment to be sure, but that was over a month ago." She searches his face. "Are you … okay with this?"

"Are you kidding?" he shifts so that he can cradle her face. "This is amazing. Yes. This is fantastic."

"You're not …" she trails off. She's not sure what she means, exactly. She feels like she should be panicking more, and she's not. Maybe it was better this way. Knowing both of them, if she didn't get accidentally knocked up, they would have talked and debated and analyzed the decision for so long they would have been past the parenting window.

"Not what?"

"We haven't even been married a year," she points out.

"So what? We didn't even date for a year. We move fast."

"That's what I'm saying. It's crazy. Not bad, but crazy. We'll have an eight month old when we have our third trip back to Market Diner. You're not worried that it's too fast?"

"No," he kisses her softly. "Absolutely not. Because we've got this, Sloan. You and me. We've got this," he kisses her again, more deeply. "This is fantastic." And she believes him.

She calls her gynecologist the next day and schedules an appointment for a week later. She tells Don he shouldn't come, in case she's not pregnant, but he's adamant that he's going to make it. The argument doesn't matter, because Baby Keefer makes its presence known two days later, when she vaults from bed at 5 a.m. with morning sickness.

"You did this," she rasps, only half-joking, when Don manages to catch up with her.

He pours her a glass of water and hands it to her, then sits down, back against the tub. "How do you feel?"

She accepts the water gratefully and scrunches her nose. "Not great," she admits. "But not terrible." Mostly she just feels queasy. She touches her forehead. That hurts too.

"Do you want crackers or anything?"

"Do we own crackers?" Don is a decent cook (she is not), but they are notoriously bad at buying groceries. That will have to change, once there's a kid around.

"The bodega is 24/7," he points out.

"I'm not sending you out at five in the morning to get crackers, you'll get mugged."

"I got you pregnant, I'm not going to leave the mother of my child miserable and nauseated at five in the morning."

"That's kind of sexist and kind of sweet," she says, standing. She puts a hand out to pull him up as well. "I think we have some bread that is not moldy. I'm going to make some toast."

"I'll make it."

"Don, this could go on for months. One of us has to be not-exhausted at work. And be prepared to do the night shift when this body-snatcher arrives." They cross through the living room, where Clem is lying on the sofa. She really shouldn't be doing that. Whatever.

"I have seven months to make up the sleep," Don says, rooting around in the fridge for the remaining two pieces of wheat bread. He pops them in the and leans against the counter. "What about ginger ale? Can you have ginger ale?"

"I have no idea whether or I can have ginger ale, but we don't own it, so I can't have it now," she points out. "But we should probably buy a book or something."

"We can pick one up on the way to work."

"Oh god, work," she says. "What if I puke on air?"

"It's morning sickness."

"Both my mom and Spence had it all day — they'd be nauseated or queasy all day and then throw up at least once a day. Mom said hers was whenever, Spencer's was mostly in the late afternoon or early evening."

"Then why do they call it morning sickness?" he appears to be genuinely betrayed by the English language. The toast pops, and he quickly plates it. "Do you want butter?"

The thought of dairy makes her stomach turn, so she quickly shakes her head. He slides her the plate as is. "Thanks," she says, taking a tiny bite. Her stomach roils again and she shakes her head. "Maybe I should just head in."

"Are you kidding me? And do what?" he asks skeptically.

"The gym? Write my script?"

"Ok, we're eating toast in the kitchen at 5:24 because nausea woke you up, and you want to go exercise? Can we at least agree you don't work out until we go to the doctor's on Monday?"

"That's probably wise," she agrees, but she's not tired. In fact, she now feels like she had an energy drink, despite the fact that she just threw up and is practically shaking with nausea. "Seriously though: What if I get sick at work?"

He shrugs. "Didn't you just say you probably would, at the very least, not feel that great?"

"No, but what if I am on air and I feel the need to toss my cookies?" she tests another one feels better. "I don't want to tell anyone yet. Aren't you supposed to wait until 12 weeks? That's at least a month off. If I throw up on air, Will McAvoy will have me made in under 30 seconds."

"I'm not sure we'll last another month or six weeks with him and MacKenzie and Elliot and Charlie, but I don't think we should tell anyone, especially before the doctor's," he rubs a hand down his face and sighs.

"You should go back to bed," she says, putting her hand over his. She knows he's exhausted.

"You should go back to bed, you're growing a person. That sounds tiring."

"I always go into work by 7, at the latest, and you don't get in till 10. So I'm going in soon anyways and just want to google what I'm picking up so I don't, you know, puke all over Will."

"You have insane willpower, so I don't think you're actually in danger of that," he says. "We could call your mom?"

"At 2 a.m. California time? And ask her what?"

"Not right now, but she was pregnant three times. She probably knows something about the morning sickness."

She ponders for a minute before shaking her head. "Yes, you're right, but I want to wait until we talk to the doctor."

"Right, but I don't want you to be miserable for the next four days."

"We have an appointment Monday, and I feel fine now," she lies.

"That's bullshit," he drawls.

"I do, though," she ponders. "Spence said it just felt like you were on a ship for three months, and sometimes you threw up. That's not that bad. I like ships."

"Just promise me you'll take it easy, okay? Maybe we get a couch in your office or something. This probably won't be easy, being pregnant and working the hours you work."

"You think I should cut back?" she asks, reflexively gearing up for a fight.

"No. But I want you to work smart — sit down when you need to sit down, eat crackers when you need to eat crackers, and tell someone if you're not feeling well."

"That sounds fair," she says, kissing him lightly. "Let's go away for the weekend."

"Away?"

"Yeah. Two fewer days for me to slip. And starting Monday, when we leave the doctor's, we are someone's parents. This is the last weekend of you and me, pal."

He smiles. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care. Poconos? Long Beach Island? Newport? I can look for hotels today at work." She knows the next year — hell, the rest of their lives — suddenly just got busier, and she just wants to get away.

"All of those sound great," he says, and looks at the clock. Just after 5:30. "How are you feeling? You wanna go back to sleep for an hour?"

She really does just want to go to work, but she can tell it will probably start an argument with Don; besides, he needs to sleep, and he won't if she won't. "Yeah. Let's go back to bed."

She doesn't realize how hard avoiding things that make her feel nauseated, or how easy it is going to be to slip, until she gets to work. She's got a 7:30 makeup call for a 8:00 pre-tape, and as she's sitting in the chair, sipping a mug of ginger tea (the Internet said to do it, and it's certainly helping) and reviewing her questions, Kenzie comes in to gossip, carrying her own steaming cup of coffee. Sloan's stomach immediately flips. Shit. If coffee is going to be a trigger, that's going to be an issue.

"Morning," Kenzie singsongs.

"Morning," Sloan replies, trying to focus to keep the nausea at bay.

"I've missed you. You haven't been around Hang Chew's at all this week."

"We've been busy," she says. "Is that … coffee?" There is no way her body would betray her by not only taking away her favorite drink but also making the smell so repulsive. This kid is half her and half Don. Surely it loves coffee too.

"Yeah. You want some?"

"No thanks. I have my tea," she says, holding it close to inhale the ginger and get rid of the coffee fumes.

"Since when do you drink tea?" Mac snorts, scooping up the copy of the Journal from in front of her and curling up in the extra makeup chair.

"It's healthful. I'm trying to be more healthful," Sloan lies, sniffing it again for calm. Bethany, the makeup lady, flits around her. They're almost done.

Don enters then, and she cocks her head. "You were supposed to get more sleep," she chides.

"You were supposed to eat breakfast," he scolds back. "Hey, Mac." They exchange an uneasy look — Mac will catch on, she's now positive — and he holds up a little bag. She really does not feel like eating — she needs to do some serious research and start figuring out what she can hold down — but she knows he is right. She opens the bag and finds a single sleeve of Saltines, a plain vanilla yogurt, and pre-cut melon. All of those actually sound nice.

"Thanks," she says, opening the yogurt and grabbing a spoon. She leans up to kiss him in thanks when she smells — shit. "Did you have coffee this morning?" She scrunches up her face into a sour frowny-face and shakes her head, trying to get her point across without saying words.

He's sheepish, and misreads her as jealous — she's had headaches since Tuesday because of the no-caffeine thing. "Yeah, I got some on the way in, sorr —" she just shakes her head miserably and taps under her nose. "Oh god, the smell?" he murmurs into her hair, and she nods.

"Alright, not going to lie, the next seven months just got longer," he whispers, then steps back.

"Thank you for the yogurt?" she tries.

"Goodness, Sloan, you can't let your healthful kick go too far. First you're drinking ginger tea, now you're scolding poor Don here for choosing to drink coffee, now you're eating plain yogurt and melon — you have to stop sometime," Mac rambles on obliviously, flipping pages of the Journal. Bethany, though, puts everything together (she has three kids of her own) and her eyes widen. Catching them in the mirror, Sloan shakes her head frantically, to say, no no, don't say anything, while Don nods in confirmation then puts his finger over his lips. As they're leaving, Bethany quietly congratulates her and reminds her she's going to need to tell wardrobe. Of course.

Don order two sofas from West Elm, one for each of their offices, and they're supposed to be delivered on Friday. Unfortunately, Don didn't actually check the dimensions of their offices first; while the sofas will fit easily, it will require reorganization, which they don't discover until they've tied up the freight elevator and each have a crew of two guys holding the furniture awkwardly outside their doors.

"Keefer! What the hell is this?" Charlie yells as he enters her office, where she is frantically pushing things out of the way to make room for the damned thing.

"Keefer is down a floor, doing the exact same thing to his office," she retorts, because she has not and will not change her last name. At least not professionally. "If you have a question for Keefer, you should go there."

"You both were hit with a Martha Stewart bug on the same day?" Charlie asks.

"Don ordered both of them, so no. One of us was hit with the Martha Stewart bug and one of us just … is the beneficiary."

"And he decided to buy you a sofa too?"

"Yes! He's my husband. He decided he wanted a sofa, then thought, 'Hey. Wouldn't it be cool if I had two couches on which to chill out? Hey, I have a wife whose office I can put one in.'"

"This is a newsroom! This is not your living room!"

She's still pretty queasy — she ended up throwing up twice yesterday and has already thrown up once today — and pretty short-tempered. "Well, no, Charlie, but we do spend more time here than in our own living room, so if we want goddamn sofas to crash on when we miss our own I don't think that's too much of an issue!"

He draws back because he can tell she's serious, but still wags a finger at her. "No hanky-panky on these."

She laughs, because right now, as her stomach continues to tap-dance due to Don's child, that is the furthest thing from her mind. "Glass doors, Charlie, ew," she says, then adds, "Besides, you've barged in on us literally the one time we've considered getting busy at work."

"You know, in the last five years, you've certainly gained some spunk, young lady," he replies.

"And what? You hate spunk?" she quotes.

"No," he says simply. "I actually enjoy it quite a bit." He departs easily.

Once the couch is in place, she collapses on it, closing her eyes for just a second. Pregnant or no, the idea of a sofa in-office is heavenly.

She's rudely awoken by Don gently shaking her. "Shit," she says, jumping up with a start before realizing that is not a good idea. She settles back down onto her side until the spell passes. "Can you hand me the crackers? They're on my desk. And that ginger ale, please. What time is it?" Don moves to grab both.

"It's five till three," Will says, from a spot she can't see. Shit.

"I need to be on the air soon. I need to go talk to Julia about the script." Once I am able to move.

"Eat a cracker first. Did you eat lunch?"

"No, I fell asleep around 2:15. Why didn't anyone wake me up?"

"We didn't know; you should be fine for four," Don says. "You do need to get to makeup now."

"Yeah. Just give me a sec. Could you actually go grab me a sandwich? No, you've got a story meeting at 3:30." She presses her palms to her head. That seems to help.

"I'll get you a damn sandwich first," he says. "They can wait for a second."

"Are you sick?" Will asks.

"Yes," she answers at the same time Don says no. She shoots him a look, then stands up, taking another swig of the ginger ale. "I'm not sick, I just feel sick. I probably had some bad shrimp. Or lobster, that can go bad too. It's not contagious, so you don't need to buy a SARS mask."

Will stares at her, then at Don. "You're pregnant," he says simply.

"No," she says at the same time Don says yes. "Hey," she says, since they weren't telling people.

He shrugs. "Yeah, that wasn't going to last long with him. And we said we wouldn't tell people, not that we'd lie when they guessed."

"If you want other people to not guess, you'd better become better liars," Will says. "Congrats."

"Thanks," she smiles. "But seriously, this is locked down. This is in a vault. We haven't told our parents, and we haven't been to a doctor's, and it's probably about seven weeks along, so this is getting buried like Jimmy Hoffa."

Will nods and smiles. "This is going to be fun."

"Hopefully we won't screw it up too much," she says, crunching through another cracker. "All right. I need to get going."

"I'll grab you the sandwich," Don promises.

"You two are going to be good at this," Will says, after Don leaves.

"No choice now, is there?"

"Doesn't matter; you will be."

That evening, as she's leaving to go home at exactly 9:02, Kenzie stops her in the newsroom. "Are we still on for the MOMA opening tomorrow night?"

Shit. "Kenz, I'm really sorry, I completely forgot, and Don and I booked this weekend in Newport. Can you go with Will instead?"

"Newport? Why are you going to Newport?"

"I hate Montauk?" she tries. That is true.

"Is everything OK with you and Don?" Kenzie asks, in a low voice, since they are in public. She starts heading toward her office, and Sloan has no choice but to follow.

"Of course. We're great. Why would you think that?"

"Because you've been distant, and the two of you have barely spoken all week, and you're leaving early, and you look exhausted. You've been short with people as well, and you look stressed. When he brought you breakfast the other morning you could barely stand to be near him. I know marriage is probably a little overwhelming —"

"Kenzie," she stops her friend before she really gets on a roll, and opens the door to Kenzie's office, ushering her in. "No. Absolutely not. I'm more tired than usual, yes, so I'm leaving earlier and probably a little baggy-eyed. But I swear, this has nothing to do with Don. At all. He's great. We're great. That's why we're going to Newport — we just wanted to spend some time together. That's it."

"Because it's OK to have rough patches."

"We're not having a rough patch."

"I'm just saying it's OK, I know you guys got married quickly, which I think is great, and I think you're great, but I know you didn't really have any rough patches that I just think you should know that it's not a make-or-break mo—"

Oh dear god. "Kenzie, I'm pregnant," she hisses, looking around furtively even though they are in Kenzie's office. "I took some tests earlier this week and then as soon as I did, I started being tired and nauseated. The other day? The smell of coffee makes me feel like I'm going to projectile vomit in front of a million people, that's why I didn't look happy with Don. I'm pregnant. That's why I've been sick, and tired, and crabby, and why Don decided to tie up the elevator for two hours yesterday as he had sofas delivered."

"Oh my god," Kenzie cries, and then gives her a big hug. "You're pregnant!"

"Yes," she whispers. Just in case. "Probably seven weeks, if the way the internet says to calculate is correct. I didn't want to tell anyone for another month. I still don't want to make any sort of public announcement for another three months. I actually don't want to make a public announcement at all, but that is clearly impossible," Kenzie looks like she's about to start crying with excitement. "So please, keep it under wraps. We haven't even been to the doctor yet. We haven't told our parents. We haven't told Charlie. Will … figured it out this afternoon. And actually, Bethany figured it out yesterday too. But please. Keep it to yourself."

"Wow," Kenzie is stunned. "I didn't know … I mean, that's stupid of me, since you're married and bought a place so why wouldn't you want to have kids, but it seemed..."

"Like this is sudden? Yeah, totally not planned. I'm thinking I screwed up some time zones while we were in Thailand," she says, edging it with a little self-deprecating laugh. "It's like one of those lightbulb jokes — how many doctorates does it take till you can figure out your birth control? More than two, we know now."

Kenzie turns her head at the tone. "Are you … How do you feel about it?" she tries for a more diplomatic approach.

Sloan sits, and realizes that this is the first time she can honestly think about and talk about how she feels. Because with Don, it's all the heady, crazy-fast anticipation of the coming roller coaster, and they have so many details to work out. And she's the detailed one, she's the one that does details, so she needs to focus on those. There's no time to process how she's feeling. She knows he's so happy about this. Yes, he was taken aback at first, but he's happy about this. She knows he'll be a great dad. She's excited for him to be the dad, to see him be a dad.

"I think I'll feel much better once we go to the doctor's on Monday and she tells me it's OK that I kept taking the Pill and drinking and downing excessive amounts of coffee and didn't increase my folate intake for the past month," she admits. "And then … Yeah. Is the whole concept of being a mother a little terrifying? Yes. Is it much earlier than we anticipated having a kid? Yes. Do I … wish we had more time before this happened? Yes. Is there a lot to work out, with our jobs and our schedules and schools and nannies and other things we wanted to do? Yes," at her friend's alarmed face, she quickly wraps up her rant: "But it's fine. I mean, it's great! I mean that," she reassures. "I married him. If having a child with him was going to be a problem I wouldn't have done that."

"I know! And you two are great," Kenzie searches her face. "But it has been quick. And neither are you are really the impulsive type, but you were impulsive about the wedding..."

"No we weren't," Sloan corrects. "That's the thing. We decided that wanted to be married, not engaged, and so put together a wedding quickly. That wasn't an impulsive choice. This isn't like we just dated for two years off and on and accidentally got pregnant; we're married. For better, for worse, we're married. We talked out kids, death, careers, finances, religion, when we were making that decision. Marriage was intentional. This kid … another story. But Don once told me that marriage wasn't a market prediction, and I argued with him. I said when choosing a spouse you were making a bet on the future. But he's right. It's choosing someone to help you pick the other stocks, and helping you deal with whatever the market throws at you. Like a baby. So yes, it's a curveball. I've never changed a diaper before, which freaks me out. I am worried about a lot of things. But am I worried about how this will work long term? Hell no." She notices tears in Kenzie's eyes. "What?"

"It's just … you two are always so low-key, and sarcastic, and you get along so naturally that sometimes it's easy to forget how good … and strong … you two are," Kenzie says. "That was just romantic, Sloan. It's … It's clear why you two figured it out so quickly."

"Thanks," she smiles, and grabs her bag. "So yeah, we booked a weekend out of town together because of this. It's just, I realized this is the last weekend before we become parents and it's no longer just the two of us. So I'm really sorry about MOMA, it honestly, absolutely slipped my mind."

"It's fine," MacKenzie says. "You two have a good time, alright?"

"Absolutely," Sloan says. "And remember — please. Don't tell anyone."

"Of course not," Kenzie smiles. "God, you two are going to be good at this."

It's the second time someone has made the pronouncement, and it makes Sloan a little uneasy. Because she's not entirely sure how objectively good she'll be at this. But she and Don are in it together, and the baby is en route, and so they're going to find out. "God, I hope so," she whispers against her friend's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentary: With this one, I really wanted to take a dramatic jump with the timeline to emphasize that these would be sort of scattered, and to suck people in by making them wonder how they got from relatively newly dating to married and dealing fairly calmly with an unplanned pregnancy. I quickly realized that I needed each piece to work on three levels: I needed it to be an actual oneshot that people could read on its own, since that's what was advertised; it needed to work as a chapter that sensically followed the one posted prior to it, since most people would read that way; and it needed to work chronologically, if anyone ever were to go through and piece them together. So when I hatched the 'Sloan and Don find out she's pregnant' plot bunny, it opened a whole can of questions that I had to answer first: How and when did they get married? In the future, where are they working? What's their relationship to the rest of the team? Where are they?
> 
> This was great because it really made me sit down and plot out their relationship. Doing so allowed me to sprinkle in a lot of references to things that, if you read all the chapters, have happened in the past: They talk about going to Market Diner, for instance (chapter 8 and 17); Clem and the kitchen renovation (chapter 13 and 18); the quickie wedding (chapter 3 and 6); and the honeymoon in Thailand (chapter 22, among others).
> 
> But there are other textual things that hint to major changes, and to me they're almost more interesting. My favorite visual of the whole chapter to write is Sloan telling him she's probably pregnant: She's freaking out, almost unable to talk, and, after Don sits down next to her, she puts her feet in his lap. Then he subconsciously starts giving her a foot massage. Including that part was a strategic decision. It's so casual and intimate — more than anything mentions, that points to a major change in their relationship and a different operating paradigm. They're confident, secure, casual. The relationship is sealed.


	3. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have been reading, and especially to those who have left reviews! This one is the fluffiest to date (toothachingly so), and also the first I wrote. I've started posting the longer piece that these feed into, thicker than forget, so if you like this you should check that out. It's got considerably less fluff but is still pretty decent, I think. Again, this timeline assumes Don and Sloan started dating in about November or December of 2012, which obviously didn't happen in canon. The other piece 'thicker than forget' (which you should read) assumes that s.2 happen, and takes place about 6-8 years in the future. I consider both to be truth. Ah, the wonders of fanfiction!
> 
> Anyways, if you like this, please let me know! I really appreciate it.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own the characters. The title comes from 'Shelter' by Ray LaMontagne.

It's not sentimental, no no no

She has her grief and care, yeah yeah yeah

But the soft words, they are spoke so gentle, yeah

It makes it easier, easier to bear, yeah

-Otis Redding, "Try a Little Tenderness"

The topic of moving in together is first broached in May, by Kenzie. She's had about three too many cosmos and is watching them argue where to go home to after a night at Hang Chew's — Sloan wants to go to her place because all her clean clothes are there; Don wants to go to his place since it's 12:30 in the morning and his apartment is closer. Kenzie's chin is tucked into the heel of her hand, and her eyes spark back and forth between them as the argument gets increasingly irritable. They are strung out from neverending election coverage, and so close to Memorial Day (she's going down to Don's mom and stepdad's in Cape May, and it's her first time visiting them and she can't pretend it's a little nerve-wracking), and so close to a full-blown argument because they are overtired. So when Kenzie, who's the most overtired of them all, goes, "Oh, just move in together!" Sloan freezes.

"Drink your cosmo, Kenzie," she finally says, as Don splutters. Because he knows — and she knows he knows — her tacit condition for moving in together: A marriage proposal.

It's old-fashioned, she understands, to wait to merge households. But she is kind of old-fashioned, anyways, and she's definitely independent. Plus, it's more difficult, financially and emotionally, to go through a breakup when you're living together. Both she and Don had lived through it already. And while Maggie had just moved all her crap out of Don's place and left in a day (with her strange stopover in Sloan's office), Sloan had had to live in a hotel for three weeks after the breakup with Topher — which meant she had to go back, after it was all over to pick up furniture and supervise wedding-gift return and parse his books from hers.

"Goodness, Sloan, it's more economical," Kenzie drawls, downing the Cosmo.

"It's not, actually," she replies. "We both own our apartments. It's not waiting out one lease and picking the place we mutually hate the least."

"You're a party pooper," Kenzie mutters, beckoning for the waiter. "You logicalize everything. You know, you could get a dog if you moved in together. You can't get a puppy when you're splitting time between two spaces. Somebody around here needs to get a puppy, and you two are my best options." She orders another drink as Sloan signals for the check. "And now you're leaving!"

"Yes, because Don's right, his place is closer, and I'm tired, but I'm going to have to go to my place tomorrow morning to pick up clothes."

"For crying out loud," Don says, just throwing down a fifty to cover their drinks and grabbing his coat. "It's late. The streets will be empty. Let's just take a cab to yours." He's not mad, just tired.

She's too tired to argue too (and she does live really damn far away, but she honestly has nothing left at his place) so she just says, "Thank you," as she shrugs her jacket on. They leave to Mac yelling, "You'll have to talk about it someday!"

He hails a cab and she gets in, quickly telling the cabbie William Street. As Don opens his mouth to speak, she shakes her head and says, "Don't."

"I was going to say, this is probably better anyways, since that ficus you've been battling is probably dead, but yes. Please. Assume the worst."

She feels chastened, so she just reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry. It's late, and I'm tired, and I don't want to talk about what Mackenzie just said when I'm tired and probably going to say something stupid."

"I don't think whatever you're going to say is as stupid as you think it is," he says mildly.

She tosses him a wary look, and then says, "Good. Whatever," and shifts unexpectedly to curl into his side.

"Aren't you the one who always gripes about the seatbelts?" he mutters against her temple.

"Seatbelts save 10,000 lives a year," she confirms, but doesn't move.

When they get to her place, they go through their evening routine on autopilot: She boils hot water so she can have tea and he can have cocoa (she's been sworn to secrecy about that), and he waters the plants and empties the load of towels she started last week. Once the chores are done they pad into the bedroom and he flips to the Daily Show. "We're going to have to do my place tomorrow since now I'm the one out of clothes," he says as he tosses his jeans and shirt into the hamper.

"You have something, though, right?" She pulls a plum razorback tank and white lace shorts on, straightening the hem with two fingers.

"Yeah, your favorite flannel shirt," he snorts.

"I hate that shirt," she says, unnecessarily, because she knows exactly which one he is referencing.

He rolls his eyes and pads into bed. "You want to tell me why Mac's comment freaked you out so much?"

She puts down the Journal of Political Economy she's brought for light bedtime reading, and considers huffing, "Not really." She is more mature than that, though. At least when she's speaking out loud. Stretching out on her side and tucking her head onto her elbow, she says, carefully, "Remember what I said when you asked me how to ask Maggie to move in with you?"

"You suggested that I ask, 'Will you marry me,'" he aligns his body to hers. "And then reminded me that if we broke up we'd need to get cartons. Which was true, by the way, so thanks for the head's up."

She smirks at his poor attempt at humor. "So the thing is, I believe that. I think if you're going to commit to someone, you need to think it through."

"I got that," he says, tugging a finger through her hair.

"Ok," she says, struggling to figure out where that leaves her. "So Kenzie's comment threw me a little."

"Ok. Why?" he's got his patient journalist-guy voice on, and his hand trails from her hair over her arm and around her hip.

She gives him a 'duh' look. "Because it — the other it — is not something we've discussed. And I don't know where you stand on either, and I was … worried," she huffs out, because feelings kind of suck sometimes, "that we aren't on the same page. I'm not sure what page I'm on, honestly. I'm not on any page. And I don't want that … condition … on moving in ... to put pressure on you. Because I like where we are. And you tend to flip out under pressure. As do I. And if we're making decisions about … us … in the future, I want to do so clear-headedly." Sloan Sabbith, that is not a word, she scolds herself.

"Ok," he says casually, moving in for a kiss.

"Do you have anything besides 'Ok' to say?" She pulls back.

"I think we are on the same page," he elaborates. "Moving in with Maggie was clearly a colossal mistake, so if you don't want to or don't feel ready, I don't want to push you. Us, I mean. And I knew your feelings on it from the get-go, so this isn't a new thing. I don't need to do the technical move in to feel validated in this relationship."

"It's not that I don't think I'd like to live with you," she says, too quickly. "Or that I don't recognize that yes, it's a little inconvenient to basically be splitting time between two apartments fifty blocks apart."

"So move in with me," he says.

She stares at him. "Did you not understand what I just said?"

"I did," he says.

She's still confused. "I said I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was at least engaged to him."

"And I'm still asking."

"I don't know what you're asking!" He gives her a look that says, you are clearly smarter than this, Sloan Sabbith, and she exclaims, "You were dating Maggie for 18 months and when I suggested that you propose, you moaned because the idea was too overwhelming!"

"You lived with Topher for a year before he proposed," he counters. "Those were different relationships."

She stares at him like he is deluded, because he potentially is, but waits for him to elaborate. "Look, I'm not saying, 'let's get married tomorrow,' or that I have a ring or anything — I don't — but I'm saying — not to me specifically, but why would you get married? Generally."

"Beyond the tax benefits?" she says, and he pinches her hip lightly. In retaliation, she tickles his third rib, which always triggers some reflex, and the teasing does just enough to defuse the situation. Finally she gasps, gathers her breath, and runs a hand down his cheek, contemplating his question. "I guess … I only want to get married once," she says. "So I would want to be … comfortable making that assessment."

"It's not a market prediction," he counters.

"It kind of is," she points out. "In fact, that's exactly what it is."

He rolls his eyes, but scoots closer. "I think you're wrong — I think it's more like picking someone to pick stocks with — but alright. Do you predict that we could break up? Or that we might not be compatible in the long run? Be honest." And he means that, she knows. He's confident but not arrogant, which is her favorite Don.

"No," she breathes, after a second, because that's as long as it takes. She has known him for nearly four years. She knows him. She knows them. She knows her answer. "I don't."

"Ok," he says. "So beyond the one-and-done thing, what else do you consider when you get married? To … a hypothetical anyone."

"Well, I would be doing it for the marriage, and not the wedding," she says. "Not that … Not that Topher was for the wedding, necessarily, but we'd been together for so long, and we'd been living together, so it was kind of … what happened next. There were no reasons why we shouldn't, but not a whole lot of reasons why we should. So I would want to make sure I was getting married because I wanted to be with … that person. That I wanted them to be the first person I saw in the morning and the last person I saw at night. That I could talk to them, and not be afraid of what they were going to say. That person who would be my counsel, and know my secrets, and not be afraid to be honest with me, and that I could trust, to know the not-good parts about me, but also just as the person who witnesses the rest of my life. Who is there for basically everything, big or small. That … I could see raising children with, if we decided to have them."

"You want kids?" he asked, propping his elbow so he was raised a little higher. It was not something that had come up before.

"I mean, not four, and no stupid names," she says quickly, thinking of her own family. "But one or maybe two, with the right person? Yeah." She's never felt that kids were necessary, but she could see them with Don in a way she's never pictured them with anyone else, even Topher. Then, kids were so hypothetical that she had assumed she would have five or six years of marriage to ease into the idea, or make a decision. With Don, she could see a kid. She'd like to see him as a dad. He would probably be good at it, she thinks.

She searches his face, because it's not something they've discussed, and she doesn't know if he thinks he would be a good dad. But he says, "Two sounds like a good number," before a grin cracks across his face.

She kisses him briefly and then asks, "Why you? Why now?" The unspoken — his general unwillingness to commit in the past — lingers between them.

"Because I ... It's not like I want to be married, like that is driving the thought. But I … want to be old with you. Sit on some porch in Florida, listen to you rant about what Congress is doing to fuck up the economy, spoil grandkids, old. I like the sound of that," he says. "I don't have to — I don't have to be anything else with you, and I like that feeling, and I want to argue and flirt and just be with you. And it's different and it's special and I know that. And it's not changing, and I haven't had that before. So if it's now or in four years or ten years, I would like to at some point let our friends and families recognize that. I don't care when, I just want to. You know. At some point."

She leans in to kiss him then, and he quickly rolls over her. She smiles into his kiss, because it feels like they've decided on something. "What kind of wedding would you want?" he asks, kissing languidly down her collarbone. It's one of those makeout sessions that's intimate without necessarily going anywhere, and she arches gently into him.

"Honestly? Nothing huge. We decide to get married on a Tuesday, call all our family and friends on Wednesday and tell them to book flights or drive up, apply for a license Thursday, invite Mac and Will and Elliot and Julia and Charlie on a Friday, and get married at City Hall on a Saturday."

He pulls back to give her the widest grin imaginable, and she realizes she just planned her wedding, and this one is real and going to happen, sooner rather than later, probably. "That sounds perfect," he says, then adds, "Seriously. Whenever you want to. Move in with me."

And that becomes their thing, suddenly. He asks her at least once a day — at breakfast; when she hands him his cocoa at night; bellowed at her retreating back after a quick exchange in the halls; in her ear through the headset when she's filling in for Elliot. Standing in front of a tiny church during a long weekend on Cape May; on their first real vacation to Costa Rica; dancing as balloons fall at the Republican convention. If he doesn't remember to say it once during the day, he murmurs it into her ear as she falls asleep. A box shows up, in his sock drawer, one Thursday toward the end of July. She cracks open the box every so often to stare at it. It's gorgeous, a clear, emerald-cut diamond, three carats encircled by a dozen pave diamonds, from Cartier. It's in a split-shank gold setting, which she instantly infinitely prefers to silver or platinum. It is perfect.

And then on the second Tuesday in September, as they're all exhausted from Benghazi (which is rapidly developing) and Genoa (which is rapidly imploding) and the campaign (which is rapidly going to hell), he's standing by the TelePrompTer during her 4 o'clock show, giving her an update from MacKenzie about that night's broadcast — Kenzie's sent him as a messenger because it means Sloan is right and she knows Sloan will gloat and Mac cannot handle that right now — and she says, "Cool. Tell Kenzie that I'm glad she finally saw the error of her ways."

"Got it," he says, deadpan. "Move in with me?"

And she goes for it. "Sure. This weekend?" They're busier than they've ever been, their world is potential falling apart, and she's running on three hours of sleep, so it seems fitting, somehow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He's stunned. His papers fall all over. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a quick, hard kiss, in the 20 seconds she's got. He rushes off camera, and then continues to watch the rest of her show, which he never does. As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office, almost giggling. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"

"Yes," she breathes. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it."

"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."

And they come up with a list and start making a few phone calls. She calls a friend of a friend at Mark Ingram Atelier, and gets an appointment for Thursday morning. She selects a short, lace Amsale dress with an illusion neckline and low-cut portrait back. It skims close to her body and she would have picked it if they had a year to plan. He calls a contact at City Hall to get the license, and use Will's name to book a private meal at the Central Park Boathouse. One of his friends from college is a photographer and so they call him. They book a suite at the Peninsula for Saturday and Sunday nights for themselves. Wednesday they call his mom and Skype her parents and text her grad-school roommate and G-chat his brother and somehow cajole 25 people into getting themselves to New York's City Hall by 4:30 on Saturday. They sneak out Friday morning to fill out the marriage certificate.

They still haven't told anyone at work — they don't want word getting out. It's not hard to sneak around; between Jerry's firing and the Genoa retraction everyone is harried and busy. She spends all day Wednesday and Thursday frantically booking hotel rooms and tracking down errant guests and making phone calls between shows and is positive they will get made, because she cracks easily under interrogation and Don has a stupid grin on the entire time. On Friday, at 3, she walks into Kenzie's office, and shuts the door. "I have a thing, that I need to tell you," she blurts out.

"Goodness," Kenzie Britishes. She looks exhausted and utterly defeated. "Spit it out, then."

"I was wondering what you have going on tomorrow."

"Well I was hoping for a quiet day. I have a Pilates class at five that I haven't made in about six weeks I might go to. Why. What's up?"

"I'm going to ask you to cancel that, if that's alright."

"Why, Sloan?"

She purses her lips. "You can't tell anyone, what I'm going to tell you, until Sunday. It's embargoed. Embargoed, Kenzie. Em-bar-goed."

"Fine, embargoed, why? Are you and Don getting married?"

Well, damn. That made it easy. "Yeah, actually."

"What?" Mac's jaw goes slack.

"I said yes, actually. Tomorrow. 4:30. City Hall. We have a room reserved at the Boathouse at 7 for a reception."

"Oh, my god."

"Yeah. And remember — you can't tell anyone."

"Shit. Sloan!" Kenzie gets up, and crushes her in a hug. "I called this, you know. I told Will last year that you two should end up together. And he said true love always wins! And he was right. When did he ask? How did he ask?"

"Tuesday."

"What?"

"He asked Tuesday." At her friend's dumbfounded look, she elaborates, "About four months ago, you told us to just move in together —"

"I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised. You were pretty … schwasted, I think, is the term. Anyways, he knew that I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was engaged, and then we started talking about what we would want to do and we kind of …. agreed that this would happen."

"Four months ago?"

"Yes."

"He asked you to marry him four months ago and you didn't say anything in the last, oh, four months!"

"He didn't ask, and I didn't say yes! We just agreed. And every day since — he asks me to move in with him. Because … I don't know, that's like our thing? Since I won't move in with him unless we're engaged, so he asks me to move in instead? It's like the transitive property of marriage proposals. Wait. That sounds dumb when I say it out loud. Actually, most of these parts sound stupid when I say them out loud."

"No. It's amazing. Go on." Kenzie looks absolutely enthralled.

"Fine. So he asks me to move in with him once a day; I say not yet. And then a few weeks ago an engagement ring showed up on his dresser."

"He just put it on his dresser."

"Well. In his sock drawer. But I practically live with him! And he didn't say anything."

"So he just … had this engagement ring? And you didn't say anything? And you didn't tell me?"

"Yes. No. It was his ring. And he asked me to move in with him every day. And so on Tuesday, I was doing the 4 o'clock, and you sent him to tell me something, and then he asked me to move in with him. And I said okay."

"That is the most backwards, most romantic, non-proposal proposal."

"I mean, the end result is the same, right? Marriage?"

"So now you're getting married on Saturday. And where the hell is this ring? I want to see the ring."

"I can't wear a ring when nobody knows we're getting married. And yes. That was part of our plan — do it quickly. We don't really care about the wedding."

"That's so romantic," Mac breaths.

"I would say more 'practical,' but sure," she agrees. "Anyways — one, don't tell anyone. I invited Julia today, and I think he's talked to Elliot already, and we're going to go to Charlie and Will together this evening. But that's it from the office. So don't. Tell. Anyone." She gives her friend her Deadly Serious face.

"Got it," Mac says, smiling because she loves a good secret. "Are you going to tell everyone?"

"Well," she says, because they've talked about it. "We're looking at a two-week honeymoon in the spring. So we figure everyone will catch on by then."

"Oh my god, you're getting married!" Mac exclaims, hugging her, tears in her eyes.

"Another thing," she says, biting her lip and scrutinizing her friend. "Will you be one of our witnesses and sign the certificate? I got to pick one and I'd like you. Don's asking Elliot."

"Oh my god, oh my god," Mac says, and honest to god starts crying outright. "This is so … I'm so. .. Yes. Absolutely. Of course." She hugs her tight. "So where are you guys moving?"

"What?"

"You said it was all about moving in with him. So are you moving into his place or to into your place?"

"Oh," Sloan said. "Fuck. We didn't think through that part." She wrinkles her nose. "Honestly, we should probably just buy a bigger place. And new furniture."

"You two are so dense," Kenzie says, but she's smiling.

Planning a wedding in four days isn't advisable. Plenty goes wrong — she forgets to buy flowers, so they stop the taxi in front of a flower shop and she runs in to pick out a batch of magnolias. And they forgot to think of music too, so Will brings his guitar to play Paul McCartney. But she does get to wear a perfect white dress and a pair of killer Jimmy Choos in front of the 30 people who matter to her, and marry the person that matters most to her. And that's the only thing that really counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I liked Newsroom enough the first several episodes I saw, I didn't really like it until the sixth episode. I liked so many characters on paper, but what I was seeing, while enjoyable, wasn't really gelling.
> 
> Until 'Bullies.' Specifically, the casual, honest, upfront intimacy between Don and Sloan: How he touched her wrist to pull her away; the entire 'you were my first and only choice' exchange; the scene with Charlie; and, most importantly, 'You think I'm here to make you feel better?.' All of it spoke to a more interesting, and deeper, show than what I had been watching, and a relationship that was way more layered than the one (Don/Maggie) I had been told to care about.
> 
> And then the season finale. That scene. Was. Everything.
> 
> What I particularly liked was how Sloan knew exactly what she wanted. She knew when she wanted someone to ask her to move in with them. She wasn't going to fuck around, she wasn't going to dither, and she wasn't going to just fall into anything. She's intentional in a very rare and specific way. That scene, I think, informed my understanding of Sloan more than anything else in the preceding ten episodes. She was confident, articulate, and, while she did things in her own (offbeat) way, she was smart and insightful and it was all sorts of hot. That became my template for writing Sloan in this story.
> 
> And Don matches her beat for beat. Throughout the first season, I see Don as someone desperately in need of both an out and an outlet. He's bored and restless and everything kind of falls apart for him, and there's a lot of rage and anger and it gets directed into all sorts of weird places and ways. He's not getting challenged enough, essentially, and it means he's rude and mean to Maggie and Mac and Elliot. And professionally he starts to gain traction throughout the season, but it's not until Sloan comes along with "you never asked me out," that he's able to stay engaged enough in his personal life. He's got a positive outlet; she keeps him on his toes.
> 
> Don's a pretty smart guy. He's self-aware — probably too self-aware. He knows that this is as good as it gets for him. So he's got it figured out. He also has Sloan figured out. He knows she doesn't like things sprung on her and she doesn't trust things that move too fast. She needs evidence. So at this point he's been waiting. And he's not looking for an opportunity, necessarily, but when it arises, in the form of a drunk!Mac, he takes it. He's sure. He's ready. So when Sloan's flailing a little, he's there and he's calm and he just … logicalizes it. Sloan's not a person who leans on other people, but he's gentle and straightforward with her, and it's persuasive. She doesn't think she has actual human knowledge, so he walks her into it.
> 
> I think the setting is important for their conversation. I tend to place a lot of scenes in bed. They don't have a lot of free time, and they don't have a lot of time together, and they're both people that put up a lot of defenses and masks and subsume their needs and wants and are actually pretty lonely. They're not exactly honest a lot of the time, with themselves or others. So in bed, late at night, under the covers where it's quiet, it's probably as honest and as comfortable as they can ever be. It's a huge contrast to when Don asked Maggie to move in with him, which was all performance: He's in boxers, and she doesn't have makeup on. There's nothing else to look at. There's no box and speech to rehearse into perfection. They're come as they are. They can only be themselves. It's almost frighteningly intimate.
> 
> So they're there, in bed, they're having a conversation. It didn't make sense to me that they would have a big proposal. Sloan, as indicated in the season-finale scene, would ever go for a proposal or a major life decision where she's a passive agent. She wants intentionality. She wants partnership. She wants somebody who knows what they want (and totally calls Don on not knowing what he wants). The proposal is less important, she feels, than the the merging of lives. She just wants to keep walking together toward their destination. They're not leap-of-faith people, or grand gesture people, so there is no leaping: Don tried it, and it did not fit at all. It wasn't natural. Sloan knows better than to try. So this is completely logical and even romantic in its practicality, in the way it fits them as people.
> 
> But I wanted to tweak that, just a little, at the end of the day. So Sloan gets swept up. The thing she originally cared most about — the practical thing, the moving in, the logical intention — ends up going by the wayside as she plans the wedding, and her subversion of tradition and norms is subverted. She and Don don't think about the apartment conundrum while they're planning. They just get caught up in the important stuff. The actual transition is just a detail.


	4. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: Hey all! I'm sick on a Saturday night, so figured I might as well update this :) This one-shot is one of my favorites, and it comes before the last one, get to meet Don's brother and some of the rest of his family, and I think they're pretty awesome (I kind of picture Jake Johnson playing the affable, slightly oblivious brother, but that's weird because Olivia Munn played his love interest once too.) But whatever.
> 
> Thanks so much for everyone who is reading and reviewing this one, as well as "thicker than forget" my longer piece.

And I've trained myself to give up on the past 'cause I frozen time between hearses and caskets

Lost control when I panicked at the acid test, I wanna get better

I didn't know I was lonely till I saw your face. I wanna get better.

I didn't know I was broken till I wanted to change. I wanna get better

-Bleachers, "I Wanna Get Better"

"Eight tickets. Yes. For tomorrow," Don says, as the woman on the other end of the line starts laughing. "All together, if possible, but given your reaction I'll honestly just take things that are in the same theatre."

"Sir, Newsies is the hot ticket on Broadway right now," the woman says, and he imagines her wiping back tears. "The hot ticket. It could win the Tony! And you want eight tickets, all together, for tomorrow."

He taps the phone's receiver against his head and wonders if he's delusional. "Are the tickets available or not?"

"They're $210 a person," she says.

"That's $1,700! For a play about kids who sell newspapers for a penny. Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Plus fees. Do you want the tickets or not?"

He is going to kill Mitch, one day, possibly tomorrow. He takes a deep breath, and is about to confirm, when Sloan wanders in. She cocks her head and motions at the phone. "One sec," he tells the lady. "Mitch is coming to town tomorrow."

"Mitch?"

"Yeah, he called around noon. It's spring break and it's Madison's birthday and she wants to see Newsies. But of course he hadn't gotten tickets yet, because why would he, since I live in New York, so I should handle it since it's around the corner?" he says sarcastically. Sloan looks as confused at the logic as he is, which makes him feel better. "Anyways. Tickets are $210."

"Plus fees," the agent says.

"Plus fees," he repeats, and then sighs. "I'll take them," he says. "Eight. One sec. Let me grab my card." He quickly wraps up and then says, "I just paid $1,700 for tickets to a musical because my brother forgot about quaint technologies like the phone and the Internet that would've enabled him to take care of this himself."

"What time is it?" she asks.

"It's the 2 p.m. show, they're just driving up for the day," he replies, then remembers he never actually asked if she wanted to come along. "Shit — I got — sorry — I didn't ask. Do you … want to come with us? Are you, you know, free tomorrow? I didn't check." While he thinks she's in it with him, he's never really quite sure. One day she's going to wake up and realize she can do better than him, so he should probably not just expect that she's going to want to spend all day meeting his brother, his sister-in-law, his half-sister, and his elementary-school-aged niece and nephews, none of whom she's ever met in person. "Shit, you have spinning on Saturday. And you grade your papers on Saturday. You should do those."

"No, the show sounds fun. Or, I should say, watching you watch a completely realistic, not-at-all-factually-exaggerated musical about newsboys while having to not be dry or profane around young children sounds fun," she says. "Plus Mitch never finished telling me about how you broke your collarbone in Panama City in 1997, and I really want to hear that."

"It was his fault," he says, for the fifteenth time, but Sloan smirks anyways.

"What time are they getting in?"

"Nine, he says."

She wrinkles her nose. "It's like, what, a two-hour drive from Philly? They want to leave at seven?"

"Yeah, but I bank on them getting in at 11 and they get in at eight," he says. "They're going to go shopping first, I think. What does an six-year-old girl like to do?"

"She's eight, you know."

"Who is?"

"Madison, your niece? She's eight. It's her eighth birthday. You suck at math."

"She's in second grade!"

"You turn eight in second grade. You think you turn six in second grade?"

"I don't remember the second grade, so sure."

"You start kindergarten at five, five plus two — you know what, this is alarming and stressful. Let's not. What time do they want to meet?" He shrugs. "OK, why don't you find that out? And then find a restaurant if they want to grab lunch."

He quells the urge to kiss her. "You're the best."

She smiles, but looks a bit puzzled. "Yes, but I don't know how this qualifies. He's your brother; she's your niece. It's not that hard."

He kisses her then. "I've got to go prep," she says, smiling into the kiss before breaking away slightly. "Please don't start a massive fight with Mitch in the next thirteen hours."

"That was almost $2,000," he says, kissing her again. "That's a long weekend on a beach with you. Of course I'm ticked."

She laughs. "If I'd ever seen you leave the office for more than a dentist appointment between the hours of 10 a.m. Monday and 11 p.m. Friday, I might believe you," she squeezes his hand. "I'm going to makeup. I'll see you at Hang Chew's. Wings are $2 each since it's Friday."

"I can do vacation," he protests as she heads to the door. She just raises her eyebrows, says, "Sure, honey," in a syrupy, mocking tone, and heads out. If the tone hadn't given her away, the use of a pet name would. "I can totally do vacation," he repeats to the empty room.

He heads to a conference call with the six ACN embeds covering the Republican candidates (unsurprisingly, their relationship with the Romney bus is still a little rocky), before popping into the graphics department to check out two charts for Elliot, then grabbing his script and popping into the control room to watch Sloan explain why the Dow has dropped so badly and what exactly it means. After Mac gets done whispering sweet nothings into Will's ear, he asks, "Hey Mac?"

"What's up Keefer?"

"If you were, hypothetically, going to go away for a long weekend, to a location that is both romantic but also has no issues with Internet or television access and isn't that far from New York City, where would you go?"

Mac scrunches her nose, covers her mic to Sloan and Will. "Wow, you really know how to woo a girl, Don."

"I said romantic!" he protests. "Also, spectacular. Those are the two main things, really."

"How about … syrup-gathering in Vermont?"

"Please don't make me beg," he begs.

Mac smirks. "Let me think about it. I'll email you later," she promises.

He ends up staying way late with Mac, Charlie, and Will planning out the rest of primary coverage, so late that Sloan texts him, "Lost wing-eating contest to Neal. Dying. Bed," so he skips Hang Chew's.

He enters the apartment quietly, and peeks into the bedroom, where he sees Sloan curled in bed, the glow from the TV emanating on her skin. "How many did you eat?" he asks, leaning over her to kiss her temple as she makes a noise not dissimilar to the noise a cat makes when being woken up.

"Twelve, in three minutes," she groans.

"An even dozen's pretty good."

"Neal got sixteen. I figured, Europeans don't have the overeating issues Americans do. Surely that will work in my favor," she shakes her head. "Bad move, Sabbith. Bad move."

He chuckles a little as she burrows deeper into the pillow. "Can I get you anything?"

"McGonagall's time turner so I can go back and redo the last two hours of my life," she stretches out along the pillow, wincing, he hopes, because she finds the situation funny. "Did you call your brother?"

"I, ah, you know, I really meant to, and then I … did not."

She throws her hands up against the pillow. "Why am I not surprised?"

"What?"

"You don't like talking about uncomfortable things with your brother, like the fact that he owes you two grand for a pretty 'meh' musical based on an admittedly underrated movie."

"It's not that I don't like talking about uncomfortable things with my brother, it's the fact that I don't like talking about anything personal with anyone in my family," he clarifies, yanking off his shirt. It's a lesson he learned from his father, and he aced that class. He and Mitch were close enough growing up, though Don had never been able to figure out how Mitch was so damn nice and likable and happy all the damn time. In high school, Mitch had been a solid but not spectacular athlete while Don had ran half the clubs in school, captained the tennis team, and been an all-around pain in the principal's ass. Mitch married Melanie when they were twenty-three, and they settled into an incredibly happy, perfectly content existence with their three kids and a picket fence. Mitch developed new condo complexes, Mel was a teacher, and all three of their kids were blonde. They confused Don, on a lot of levels.

"That's so much better," Sloan smirks. "I got a noon reservation at Sarabeth's Central Park South. They have like five kinds of French toast, everyone will be happy."

"I love you," he says, mostly joking, but also completely serious. He slides into bed. "So I was thinking …"

"Yes, Christian Bale was great in the film," she murmurs, teasing.

"I will never get that," he laughs, running a hand down her hip. "When we get that two grand back from Mitch, I was thinking we go on a vacation."

"A vacation?" she asks, intrigued. "For two grand? You're gonna have to sell me on this one, pal."

"For more than two grand. Or a long weekend, for two grand. Jeez, woman. You're the money whiz. I'm just supposed to be the gold digger in this relationship, you know," he laughs. "No, I'm serious. Let's just … go."

"Where?" she asks.

"Jamaica? Bermuda? Mexico? Long Beach Island, even? I don't really care. I'm amenable."

"Amenable to swimsuits and fruity umbrella drinks, more like," she says.

"Yes, that is the definition of amenable," he laughs. "I'm serious. Let's go somewhere. I would surprise you, but I feel like you might react poorly to me throwing your Blackberry out a window and tossing you into a car."

"You do have to give me enough time to pick out what economics journals I want to bring," she laughs, pushing him under her, shifting her knees to either side of his thighs and running her hands down his belly. "And I want a week. A full week. No phones."

"Deal," he grins.

The next morning, they're in the shower when Mitch calls, arriving (unsurprisingly) early. Don convinces them to go to American Girl Place while he and Sloan get ready. He's unsure how he got roped into this adventure, and can't believe Sloan agreed to tag along, but he'll absolutely take it. He's basically prepared to follow her to the end of the earth without question, but he's not going to say that out loud, because that's creepy and he knows that.

They're finally ready — she looks great in red jeans and a blue-and-white nautical-y sweater with a big red anchor on it — to meet his brother for brunch. "You're not nervous?" he checks, as they enter the packed Sarabeth's.

"No. It's an omelette. Are you nervous?"

"No. I'm not nervous. Me? No. Never."

"Ok," she shakes her shoulders, swings her arms in front her, arches her neck to either side to stretch. "Because for the record, I might be a little nervous."

"Called it," he sing-songs as they bump into his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece, his nephews, and his half-sister. "Wow, okay," he says, trying to stay level-headed as he and Sloan stare at the pack of them. "Sloan, you've talked to Mitch, my brother; this is Melanie, his wife; here's Matt, he's in kindergarten, and Mason, he's in third grade; Madison, the birthday girl — happy birthday, Maddie — and Lily Moreno, my half-sister," he smiles. "Guys, this is my girlfriend, Sloan."

"Are you our new aunt?" Matt asks. Sloan's eyes widen and then freeze in her perfect-anchor Mona Lisa smile. She terrified. And truthfully, Don would like to die just a little.

Melanie quickly reaches out to fluff his hair in a maternal but threatening manner. "Excuse him. Pretty sure Lily offered him five dollars to say that. Apologize, Matty, that was nosy."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Wait, why is that nosy?"

"I did make him say that," Lily admits.

"You're grounded," Don deadpans.

"So what do we call her?" Matt asks his mom.

"You can call me Sloan," she smiles, then bends down and gives him her hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you." He has to hand it to her for not running away right there.

"Lily says you're on TV," Mason says.

"I am," she says, nodding. "But only for the boring stuff – the news."

"Do you know Selena Gomez?" Madison asks. "I love her."

"Nope. I saw her in our studio once, though. She had nice shoes," Sloan tries.

"We should probably find our table," Don says, placing a hand on Sloan's back to signal her to straighten. "Whose name did you put the reservation under?"

"Mine, one sec. Excuse me," Sloan ambles off, Madison trailing with more questions about Selena Gomez.

"You know, until today, I didn't quite believe you," Mitch snarks. "Why's she dating you?"

He shrugs. "Honestly I try not to question that too much," he says.

"He's so smitten," Mel says to Mitch, touching his elbow. "I told you."

"What's smitten mean?" Mason asks.

"It means Don looks like he wants to kiss Sloan a lot," Lily explains.

"Oh. Gross, Uncle Don."

"She's pretty though, right?" he asks Mason, who does smirk and nod.

"We can eat now!" Madison yells from the hostess's stand. "Let's sit down, people!"

"So how did you two meet?" Mel asks once they're all settled. She's got one son on either side of her and is in her element.

The two of them exchange a weird look, because the answer is obvious. "Work," Sloan finally says.

"Sloan started at ACN about two years after I did."

"That's how you know each other. How did you meet?"

Don struggles with the distinction. To him, they feel the same. When she started, he'd been a senior producer, focused on keeping his head above water and surfing Will's bearish and boorish whims. He hadn't noticed the new dayside anchor that everyone was talking about — she was smart and gorgeous and brand-new to journalism, but tenacious, blunt, and just a little awkward.

And then … he'd been in the middle of the newsroom, yelling at a source on the phone and bouncing a stress ball, when he missed a catch and the ball rolled away. She'd practically tripped over it, chided him to be careful, and handed the ball back to him. He hadn't been able to say anything before she strutted off, her clingy purple dress showing off her swinging hips. A few days later in a news meeting, she'd made him laugh by saying something sarcastic. He'd responded in kind, and they'd shared a smile. He'd introduced himself, and she had said, "I know." And after that, they had gravitated toward each other, become friends. And after that, she was a fixture in his life.

Sloan wrinkles her nose. "I don't know. In the newsroom, maybe? Don was probably using his rapier wit to bug Elliot or Will."

"Uh, no, Miss Scarlet, I believe it was your witty repartee, in a staff meeting, with Charlie, where we officially met," he recovers. He sure as hell isn't going to tell her that she'd rendered him speechless. That would be way too much of an upper hand between them. He grabs a menu and starts looking at their French toast selection. Sloan's right — there are three types of French toast, and two types of eggs Benedict. Holla.

"No, like when did you meet meet? Like, yeah, I met Mitch during freshman orientation at Nova, but we didn't start dating until finals, when he stood outside my dorm window holding a boombox, after he told me he didn't get Say Anything."

Sloan shrugs slightly self-consciously, because their whole history is deeper and shallower than Mitch's straightforward wooing of Melanie, and it's not something either of them want to get into publicly. She'd said once You get me, and it was true, he liked to think. That was the most important thing. They'd transitioned smoothly, and honestly, and explicitly, from friends to a relationship. But he wonders if he maybe should have used a grand gesture at some point.

He shakes his head. "We've been working together for almost four years. We were pretty close friends for most of those years," he says most, because they had drifted when he started dating Maggie. "I'd use her office to avoid the boss and she'd use me for the coffeemaker in my office and we'd end up talking at most work things, because they're terrible," he shudders.

"Can I get two French toasts?" Madison asks. "Please? It's my birthday."

"Absolutely not," Mel says.

"What if I get one and you get one, and we switch? Birthday treat," Sloan says.

Madison grins, her teeth biting her lower lip hard. "Ok," she says. "Thank you thank you thank you."

After the play — which the four kids love and he has to admit is a pretty peppy look at journalism — Madison begs to go down to the ice skating rink.

"Pretty sure it's closed," Don says, because there's no way he's getting out onto the ice.

"No way, it's open through next weekend," Sloan says.

"Traitor," he says.

"I like ice skating," she shrugs. Since they're holding hands, he involuntarily shrugs, too.

"You grew up in Japan and California, when the hell did you learn to ice skate?"

She cocks her head. "You know where Japan is, right? Next to Siberia. Between the math thing yesterday and this, I'm getting very worried about the strength of the Lower Merion School District."

"I'd be down," Mel says.

"Don and I will be in charge of the hot chocolate," Mitch says.

"You don't want to skate?" Sloan asks, her face falling.

"Uh, no," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "I value my tailbone. And the ability to walk."

"Your loss, sucker," she shakes her head.

Twenty minutes later, he and Mitch are staring at eight cups of hot chocolate as the rest of the group loops around the slushy early-spring ice. Sloan's holding Madison's hands and helping her skate backwards as Lily and Mason watch and laugh. She's pretty awesome.

"So Sloan's pretty awesome," Mitch says, out of the blue, scratching his neck. "Seriously. I think Lily and Madison are about to skip Philly and move in with you two."

"We don't live together, but yeah. She's … yeah." He smiles. He knows he's hit the fucking jackpot here.

"What the fuck, man? Ask her to move in. She likes you, you idiot. You want to hold on to her, right?"

"Yeah. She won't go for it," he shakes his head. "But yeah. I fully intend on keeping her around."

"But you won't move in with her? Don," Mitch, with the authority of having dated exactly one girl, ever, starts in on him, "you need to show her you're serious."

"Sloan doesn't want to move in with anyone until she's engaged," he shrugs. "So hopefully by the end of the summer."

"Seriously?"

He cracks a grin. "Yeah."

"Don."

"Mitch."

"You're serious about this?"

"Yup."

"The end of summer?"

"I mean, I have to, you know … figure out how to get it done in a spectacular fashion. And buy a perfect ring that costs about as much as a high-end sedan. And run it by her so I'm reasonably sure she'll say yes and she doesn't rip my heart out and toss it into a meat grinder and turn it into a hamburger patty. So there are a few things to figure out first," he lifts one shoulder. "But … yeah. I'd like to. And I'd like to soon."

"Don Keefer, pulled out of perpetual bachelordom by a gorgeous TV star who could kick his ass at Scrabble," Mitch claps him on the shoulder. "I thought this day would never come. You could barely commit to a type of pizza ten years ago."

"I wasn't that bad."

"You moved every ten months so exes couldn't find you."

"That was just one ex. A crazy ex."

"You once got a drink tossed in your face because you went on a blind date with the roommate of a one-night-stand."

"You live in New York long enough and you end up dating into the same circles."

"You broke a collarbone in Panama City jumping off a boardwalk to get away from another crazy one-night-stand."

"Alright, I get it," Don groans. "Help me out, alright? This is already nerve-wracking enough without you going over the ninety-three ways I've fucked up relationships in the past."

"She's not going to say no," Mitch says confidently.

"You've known her for what, four hours? And you saw her on Skype what, maybe three times?"

"Yeah but she likes you," Mitch shifts, and pulls a check folded hot-dog style out of his pocket. "She called me yesterday because you bought the tickets for today, and she said that you were going to be too nice and not ask me for the two grand that those tickets cost," he slides the check over. "Take this money, take that woman on a fucking vacation, and ask her to marry you." Mitch grins.

Later that night, after they've sent the Keefer family home (Madison hugged Sloan six times and then cried when her mother told her she couldn't stay in New York), she's lying with her head in his lap as they watch TV in her apartment. "Thank you for talking to Mitch," he says.

She shifts to look at him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lies.

"You're a terrible liar," he laughs. "Your right eye starts twitching and —"

"I told him not to tell you I called him!" she protests. "He's a regular old Benedict Arnold."

He smiles. "Thank you, first of all," he says. "Why'd you call him?"

She sits up. "Are you mad?"

"No! I'm the opposite of mad. Seriously. But why'd you do it?" He tugs her legs onto his lap.

"Why does it matter why I did it?" she asks. "You weren't supposed to find out."

"But why wasn't I supposed to find out?"

"Because I thought you and your brother needed to talk, I guess. And he owed you two grand, which you weren't going to ask him for because you didn't want to come off as a prick even though it's completely not-prick-y," she shrugs again, slightly agitated. "But mostly because you two needed to talk, and you weren't going to start it, because you're too nice."

"I'm too nice?" he laughs.

"Yes," she says. "You are. You're a nice guy. Even when you're pretending to be an asshole. Or even when you are being an asshole. You're a nice guy and deserve to be treated nicely and your brother is a good guy who was being pretty self-involved about what you were doing for him. To put it mildly. So I gave him a gentle reminder. A secret gentle reminder. I'm never telling him a secret again."

"He's not so bad at keeping secrets," he says, smiling at her, since Mitch definitely didn't spill the whole 'oh by the way, Don wants to marry you' thing for the rest of the day. "But thank you. That … It means a lot to me. You … You're amazing, you know that?"

"You're not so bad yourself," she smiles, kissing him lightly. He kisses her back, then kisses her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her forehead. She smiles, arches her neck to give him access. He is completely, one hundred percent serious. He's going to ask her to marry him.

Soon.

He just needs to figure out how.

It's gonna be spectacular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out their families was SO HARD. Especially Don's, since there were exactly zero mentions of them in the show. So this was one of my biggest hurdles in the piece, an if I were to do it over, I think I would give Don two sisters, one older and stuffy and one younger and ass-kicking younger sister to be biffles with Sloan. Alas! I like Mitch and his kids though.
> 
> This version crystallized after was Will's speech to Mac when his dad was dying: A dad is "the one who tells you what the world is going to think of you and if he tells you that you're bad — that, forever." Don's shouldered the burden of being the second son (but smarter and more driven than his brother), the good son (but never good enough), closer to his mother (but outwardly much more like his father), unsure of whether he's good or bad (but pretty sure he knows the answer). Growing up, he was the living representation of his parents' attempts to pretend to be happy — they may have been forced to marry because she was pregnant with Mitch, but he wouldn't exist if they hadn't put on appearances. So he's been dealing with all of that and, in the wake of his dad's death, he was the one who stepped up, set aside his own grieving process, and brokered a peace with the second family, which allowed his own family to tape itself back together and move on with some semblance of peace.
> 
> Even before his dad's death, he and his brother were very different, and as he stated in the first chapter, after his dad's death, he could either be angry at a dead guy or move on. So he did, and that required being the good son/good brother. Since he couldn't get really angry, he just kind of … ignored it and focused on things being superficially pleasant so he wouldn't upset the balance. He learned how to put a mask on somewhere, and I figured there was no better place than at home.
> 
> So what I like most is that, even with all that, even with his fervent desire to keep his life compartmentalized, he just includes Sloan as a part of all of the compartments of his life (in retrospect, I really wish I'd done chapters with them meeting old friends, but given that these are very contained chapters, I didn't want to expand too much beyond the scope of the show). He initially assumes that she'll want to go with them, before he starts overthinking. But by the end, he's pretty convinced that he's going to ask her to marry him — and he's comfortable enough to tell his brother that.
> 
> I think Don's still pretty awed that Sloan wants to be with him. But at the same time he trusts her; he has faith in her opinion of him and he respects the hell out of her, so he goes with it. (He's a little more intuitive than Sloan, which is why I think that, even with all his doubts, he gets to the 'this is it' point sooner. She deduces; at this point, she needs more proof.) It's also a good kind of awe, the kind that spurs him to step up and want to be a good guy and gives him confidence in himself: If she likes him, and he trusts her, then he can't be half bad. He's gonna be the guy, and the guy steps up. So he's stepping up.


	5. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: Hi all! Thanks so much for keeping up with these! Your reviews really keep me motivated and I hope I replied to everyone who left a signed review. This one is obviously pretty far in the future (post-the second), and it doesn't really have a point, but it's conversations and it's cute. And for those interested in TTF, there should be an update very, very soon!

As always, I don't own the characters or the songs.

Love is the answer,

At least for most of the questions in my heart

Like why are we here? And where do we go?

And how come it's so hard?

It's not always easy and

sometimes life can be deceiving

I'll tell you one thing, it's always better when we're together

-Jack Johnson, "Better Together"

October

"Are you making a list of baby names?" Will asks incredulously, peering over her shoulder during the pretaped segment right before she's on.

"Yep," she says. "Now that we know it's a boy, we need to start thinking of names. You'd think he'd be gung-ho about Maynard or Milton, but nope." She adds Timothy to the list. "What do you think of Devon?"

Pregnancy involves a lot of decisions that Sloan alternately thinks are dumb — Bugaboo vs. UPPAbaby; drop waist vs. tunic tops — and important but downright trivial — which kind of stretch-mark cream to buy (the entire concept of stretch-mark cream is kind of appalling). This one, though, is kind of big, she has to admit.

Will snatches the list from her. "Aidan. Ethan. Jacob. Wyatt. Daniel. Zachary, Jordan, Joshua, Benjamin, Parker, Nolan, Gabriel. Elijiah — God, don't do Elijah. Or Nolan, or Gabriel. Christ, Sloan, some of these are terrible."

"What about Patrick?" she asks, pulling it back and adding it to the list. "No. Patrick Keefer has way too many k-sounds in it. And sounds Irish and neither of us is Irish. I'm Japanese, Dutch, and English; Don is German and — actually, he might be Irish. He's definitely Polish. Maybe Irish? But still. The k's." She crosses it out frantically.

"The outgrowth isn't getting your last name too?" Will's been on this kick lately where he comes up with semi-derogatory pet names for the baby. Last week it was the 'bodysnatcher.'

"No, actually that was a pretty easy decision," she sighs. She's not particularly tied to her last name, is only keeping it professionally (has even begun changing it legally, though she hasn't mentioned it to Will). "Sabbith-Keefer sounds like how someone with a cold would refer to rabbi." She writes down Peter, Andrew, Jack, Jonathan, and Ian.

"Sabbith-Keefer, Sabbath keeper, that's funny. You're funny," Will says, writing something that Mac tells him down. "What about Will? Good, strong name."

"Alright, switch. And absolutely not, Will," Don says, coming up to her and holding out a piece of paper. She exchanges their sheets and he walks away, easily flipping the paper onto his clipboard as he does producery things. She looks at his list as they come back from the pretape. She yaks for three minutes about the latest drama in the Senate Banking Committee, subtly crossing out Jasper, Michael, and Hudson as she talks. She likes Samuel, so she leaves that.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Will asks when they go to commercial. She's done for the night, so she starts unwinding her mic and standing up.

"We have to come up with a name, so we're each making lists, and then crossing names we hate off of each other's list. It's modeled after a Delphi study. Eventually, we'll be left something we both like. And it keeps us both honest. For instance, Matthew," she says, crossing it off. "He actually put his own nephew's name on the list. As if his mother wouldn't notice." She shakes her head. She's got enough trouble with his mother as-is. "Veto."

"You know, in the olden days, people didn't even know what gender they were having, let alone come up with a name ahead of time."

"Yeah, but even in the olden days, they were still fifty-fifty. There's not much room for surprise there. 'Oh, it's a boy. Why, that is just out of left field, I was expecting a kitten,'" she mocks in a deep voice. "No. Not how that happens," she stares at the list. "And veto," she says. "Parker Keefer also sounds like the name of a mobster."

"What mob movies have you been watching?"

"Or a law firm," she looks at the next suggestion. "Cooper. Cooper Keefer. He thinks that's a good idea?" She shakes her head.

"And you like Nolan Keefer?" he says. "It sounds like both of you are just … going through a baby name book and selecting increasingly ridiculous names."

She glares at him. "We're spitballing. It's creative."

"You honestly think either of you will actually name a child Nolan or Cooper or Blakely or Spork or whatever the hell else you put on that list? No. He'll be a Jonathan or Michael or Timothy and that's great. Those are good names. Just talk the damn thing out with each other."

She writes down Spork as she walks away. Because it's worth a veto.

"Switch?" Don asks when she finds him in the newsroom at one of his AP's workstation, swinging his piece of paper. "I really am not a fan of Nolan, gotta say."

"Do you think we're overdoing this?" she asks as they switch. "Did you really want to name a kid Cooper Keefer? Please tell me you weren't going to go down swinging for that one."

He looks at his list. "Yeah, I did put that down," he grimaces. "I'm not — that's not — no. I put my foot down," he shakes his head. "Not that name."

"I'm really going to fight you on that one, pal," she says, rolling her eyes at his bluster. "We don't like half these names. We can't name a kid something we don't like. I just wrote down Spork. As a joke, yes, because it's funny," she can't help get sidetracked. "But we can't name this kid Spork; he'll get mocked in middle school." For some reason, whether it's the hour or the fact that she's been going for hours or the damn hormones, this is upsetting. And she does not like to get upset.

"Probably in daycare too," he mutters, before getting a good look at her. "Hey," he says, touching her elbow. "We got time. We'll stop picking them this way. Let's just go through a book together."

She nods, suddenly tired. Actually, it's not so sudden: She started hosting the 7 p.m. hour right after they got back from the Thailand trip that led to this pregnancy; coupled with the four o'clock Wrap Up (which she kept), and regular appearances on News Night and The Lead-In, their 5-7 show, she's on a lot of TV. Don refuses to book her on Elliot anymore, which is fine because some nights she falls asleep in his office waiting for Elliot's show to end.

The pregnancy has been good for them overall, thankfully. He does come out of his office to yell at whatever producer is in charge when he sees her standing up on air, which she reminds him is completely unnecessary and sexist, but she also thinks it's (a little) sweet (though definitely aggravating). But mostly he's been uncomplaining, easygoing (with her. Never with his poor APs), and upbeat; the usual Don. He gives her foot massages and comes to every doctor's appointment and has a tiny square ultrasound photo propped up on his computer (she teared up when she saw him put it up, because, hormones).

She waits around most nights until Elliot's show is done so that he doesn't worry about her getting home alone, and still carries Saltines with her everywhere she goes, because for some reason it reassures him. They laugh a lot — pregnancy is kind of absurd — and she's in the perpetually-turned-on stage, which they're both liking a lot more than the morning-sickness stage. There's something weirdly fun and exciting about it all, two words she never thought she would use to describe gaining a bunch of weight and growing a tiny human. Don's always a good person to have on an adventure.

But they haven't spoken about what happens when the baby arrives. She does not want to give up her show, but she has honestly zero clue about how they might handle their jobs and a baby. Between that and the name list that includes Nolan and Cooper and a nursery that currently has four blank walls, she's pretty sure they're massively underprepared. And it's beginning to freak her out.

"I think I'm going to cab home now," she says, checking the clock. It's 8:37, and she started the day with a run and a pre-tape before a class from 8:30-10:00. She's allowed to be tired.

Don's brow furrows in concern. "You sure? You want to wait until Mac's done so she can take you home?"

"It's a cab, forty blocks, before 9 p.m. Pretty sure I'm going to be safe from the morlocks and the Night Court crazies," she quips.

"Ok, is this one of the times that I'm being awesome when I walk you out and kiss you goodbye, or when doing those things make me an asshole?"

"This is one of those times I'll get irritated and say you're coddling me."

"Oh right, option 3," he says with an eyeroll. "Then I'm not walking you out." He leans in to kiss her, and she grabs his forearm to prolong the peck, in case her decision upset him.

She tells the cabbie 88th and Riverside, still savoring the newness of the address. They're almost at their one-year in the apartment and she still feels like she's settling in, sometimes. Mostly when she takes a deep breath and realizes that, eighteen months ago, she had barely even started to think that maybe, this thing with Don was going to unfurl long-term. Thinking back gives her a warm, complete feeling.

The condo is newly renovated and shiny. They purchased it knowing that the three-bedroom prewar was going to be tight if they ever had more than one kid, but figuring that they had enough time. That, of course, was PP (how she refers to those first blissful, pre-pregnancy months of marriage. How naive they were), and now she's concerned about what might happen if they're good enough with this one that they decide for a second.

She thinks they might be decent at it. Don will be. He's short-tempered and can be sarcastic with adults, but he's always gentle and patient with her and their nieces and nephews. He's good in a crisis, and good at reading people. She's a little worried about herself — mostly, she's worried about how the hell the career-mother balance will work — but figures she'll figure it out as they go along. She's never held a baby without making it cry, but she figures her own child is smart enough to catch on that he'll need to be nice to her if he wants milk and clean diapers. She has that going for her.

Clem is still at ACN with Don, so the apartment is quiet. She flips on the lights, then the TVs, then pads through to the kitchen to find something to eat. All they seem to have is oatmeal, so she takes it. Once it's heated up and she smothers it in raspberries, she takes it into the nursery and sits down. It used to be the office, but they've consigned that extra furniture to the guest bedroom, and now it's relatively empty, with just three catalogs and some paint swatches on the floor.

Don finds her there, two hours later, a solid rock of cold oatmeal next to her. "Hey," he says, leaning in the doorframe and studying her. "How's the view from there?"

"You look good," she sighs.

"But the room itself does not?" he guesses, moving to sit next to her, and she sighs, running a hand over the belly contemplatively. She's getting bigger. "Come on. We've got four months."

"We've got fourteen and a half weeks, no real name, no paint, no furniture, no baby clothes, no nanny, no idea what hours we want the nanny to work or if we want her to speak Japanese to him or not, no idea if I want to speak Japanese with him or not," she retorts. "We're … two of Neal's flings away from this kid. That is how much time we have left, pal."

"Aright, one sec," he says, getting up to move.

"Where are you going?"

"It's midnight, and I can feel that we're about to make some major decisions. We need ice cream, and there's some in the freezer."

She quickly grabs her bowl of concrete oatmeal and hands it to him. "Ooh, get me some too?"

He rolls his eyes. "Of course."

He's back a few seconds later, and she shifts onto her hip to face him as she eats. The bump isn't quite big enough to eat off of, though she has tried. "I have been thinking," she says, stealing a bite from his bowl first, and smiling when he makes a face, "about the name."

"Ok, and?"

"What do you think about my dad's name for a middle name?" she asks. "I don't want a hyphenate. I think our last names sound atrocious together in any way, shape, or form. But it's his first grandson, and none of his grandkids will ever have his last name probably, so I think it would be … nice."

He smiles. "So Something Thomas Keefer?"

"Yeah," she leans her head back. "But I don't know if we can just pick a name ahead of time. Like, what if we love the name Chester, and then we see him and he's so not a Chester?" She sighs and smooths a hand over her burgeoning belly contemplatively. It's not that large — she and Mac got a trainer, Sven, and he's helped her stay in pretty good shape — but she was petite to begin with, so the baby had nowhere to grow but out. It's comforting, almost. Like a worry stone.

"If we decide on the name Chester I think we have bigger problems," he sets down the ice cream. "I'm worried about us getting carried away and ending up with an Emmanuel Keefer."

"You're worried that I'm going to lose it once I've gone through labor," she says, half-jokingly. "It's ok. You can say it."

"I really don't want a kid named Maynard," he says, resting a hand over hers. "And I have a feeling that after this happens and you've done this … amazing and also completely scary thing, I'm not going to be able to say no. And then we're going to have a kid named Maynard."

She laughs, nuzzling his neck. "You sure? Tell me how you really feel," she inhales his scent. "I promise no Maynard. Andrew, Sam, Jonathan. Normal, normal names."

"Normal-first-name Thomas Keefer," he says. "What about the nursery? You know, I was googling it at work, and I think a safari-themed room would be cool."

"Safari-themed?" she asks, instantly charmed by the thought of a stressed-out Don googling nursery themes.

"Yeah. I was thinking kids' books for awhile, you know, like Dr. Seuss or something, but I kinda like this. It's like, green walls and giraffes and everything."

She laughs, and takes a deep breath. It sounds a little cliche, but also do-able and adorable. "Ok. Safari-themed. I like it." They start digging through the paint chips and surfing for baby furniture on Don's iPad, bookmarking pieces to order the next morning.

Don yawns first, as they're debating Bonavita versus Babyletto versus Ikea (she is obsessed with a Bonavita crib, and she will win), and she suddenly feels bad. "C'mon, bed." She knows he actually tired when he doesn't protest at all.

He's asleep before she finishes washing her face, though he instinctively moves to spoon her when she tiptoes into bed. But she can't sleep and after an hour of wakefulness, she mutes the TV and slides to a sitting position.

Don's a terrible sleeper, so he wakes up immediately. "Go back to sleep," she admonishes when he starts to stir.

"Garumpishbibble," he mumbles, kissing her thigh where her shirt's risen up. She's not sure if he's out, but he's quiet.

But she still can't sleep. When he stirs again she pokes him. She does feel bad, but she hisses his name anyways.

"I'm up," he says, jumping to a sitting position. "I'm up. Are you OK?"

She stares. "Did you think I was in labor?" If so, he is an idiot.

"No," he says, "but it's 2:30 in the morning, so I was … alarmed." His voice is fuzzy with sleep, and he yawns. His hair is going in about sixty-two directions. She feels bad.

"No, it's … what are we going to do about my show?"

He settles back down, apparently less worried now that she's physically ok. "What happened to your rundown?"

"Not tomorrow's. When the baby comes."

He's struggling valiantly to stay awake, which she appreciates. "You signed a three-year contract, so you're going to take maternity leave and then go back. If you quit your job I'll divorce you," he jokes.

"Don't be stupid, I'm not doing that," she says. "Just … Where's the baby going to be?"

"We'll get a nanny, like we said we would," he yawns. "We'll look it up online tomorrow, ok? Or you can put an ad up at Columbia. There's plenty of child-psych majors there."

"You think a nanny will want to work until 8? Really?" she says skeptically.

"Or I'll hold him, we'll get one of those stupid koala-pouch things" he says. "Look, I don't have to go in until one, let's be honest. I get there early because you're there. So I'll stay home, then we'll have the nanny come, then you'll take him home. Or something. We still have fourteen and a half weeks, plus three months of parental leave to work this out and I promise, Sloan, we will. We will look at the kid, and we will find a name and it will be perfect; we will decorate the nursery and I will paint walls and get Mac to plan a baby shower so we will have clothes and toys and all the random crap that babies require, like hats and … rattles and bottles and … is somebody giving you crap about being a working mother? Or being ready? Or is this just nesting? Because if it's the former, I will kick their ass for you."

She shrugs. "Will didn't really like the name Cooper Keefer."

"I would hit us if we named him Cooper Keefer," he smiles, bleary-eyed. He yawns again. "Ok. It would probably be wiser if we had this discussion, say, tomorrow, after a few hours' sleep, but what's up? Come on. Something's bugging you."

"I don't know," she sighs, and it sucks, because she can't articulate it. "Just … there's so much to do. What if we're not ready?" Don's eyes closed in his oh god look. "I'm serious!" she whines, suddenly nervous. "Have you changed a diaper? I haven't changed a diaper."

"Well, no," he says. "But everyone has a first diaper at some point."

"Yeah! On a niece or a nephew or some neighbor's kid. Not on their kid."

"Sloan, you're great at everything, we'll figure it out," he tucks her hair behind her ear. He then gets distracted combing her hair with his fingers — she imagines it's pretty messy. "But … yeah. I'm not trying to freak you out, but is anyone ready? I mean, your parents were borderline-destitute grad students. Mine … you know what, my parents aren't a helpful example. But he'll get here and it'll probably be … a lot. But we'll figure it out. We always do."

"That's what you got?" she says skeptically.

"I mean, it's 3 a.m. so my pep talks probably aren't too peppy," he says. "But seriously. It'll be overwhelming … There will be some late nights … We won't have a clue what we're doing … It'll be stressful to figure it out with work and everything else. But that's what we do, alright? We'll divide and conquer. Same way we do with a show, alright?"

"You whispering dirty things into my ear?"

"No — splitting the duties. Talking through the problem. Give and take. Being … honest with each other. Laughing," he yawns again. "That's how we'll do this." He lilts into the pillow a little, and she knows he's going to fall asleep soon. "Look. We'll order the furniture in the morning, alright? And we'll get Mac and Will to come over and paint the bedroom and I'll assemble the furniture and we'll be set, alright?"

She nods, finally beginning to feel sleepy too. "Alright. But you're not assembling the furniture."

"I'm handy," he protests sleepily.

"Chair tires," she reminds him, closing her own eyes and sliding closer to him.

He falls asleep halfway through kissing her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is super-simple, but one of my favorites just because of the intimate nature of it: It's mostly just Don and Sloan, talking — no Mac, no Will, no external drama. If I leaned into my better instincts, a lot more of the piece would have been this style (instead of the broader, thematic oneshots). It's bare, but so illuminating to who they are.
> 
> This was one of the first I wrote, and writing this and getting on paper where they were four months before becoming parents really dictated the parameters of the rest of the piece. I hadn't thought through a couple of the things I mentioned — like Sloan's new show — until I wrote all this out. I wrote it basically concurrently to the second chapter posted, and the two of them really laid out the rest of the piece for me.
> 
> But where the second chapter gave me a lot of perspective on what I needed to accomplish, plot-wise, between them getting together and getting pregnant, this one helped informed where they were emotionally. Sitting in bed, worrying about how to change a diaper, with Don threatening to divorce Sloan if she became a stay-at-home mom? It's a big jump. So it helped me try and pin down where they were, and map backwards from there.


	6. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: Hey friends! So I normally don't like writing huge moments in this series (as you can tell, most of these are snapshots of little-but-important-moments), but this snowballed from a bromantic Don and Elliot ring-shopping trip into the proposal, which I hope I gave some justice too. And it has Will mocking Don, which is always fun. And a little post-P3-13ish behavior between Don and Sloan. And, did I mention, a proposal?
> 
> This makes a lot more sense if you've also read the third oneshot in this series, which has everything from Sloan's POV. I'm sorry it's so long, but hopefully it lives up to what you hoped for! Would love to hear thoughts. ~Jo

I may not always love you

But long as there are starts above you

You never need to doubt it

I'll make you so sure about it

-the Beach Boy, "God Only Knows"

Don pops his head into Elliot's office. "Got a sec?" he asks.

"Sure," Elliot says. "What's up?"

"Here's the thing," Don starts. "Wait. You know what? Never mind."

"What?"

"It's nothing?"

"Are you ok?"

"Peachy."

"Because you look like you're about to shit your pants. And then curl up into a fetal position. And possibly vomit."

"I can't look that bad."

"However bad you think you look, multiply it by about six thousand, and then we're talking. You need to find your cha."

Don glares at him. "What are you up to this weekend?"

Elliot shrugs. "Ava's got a soccer game on Sunday."

"Ok. Great. You're busy. Thanks!"

"Don, fucking tell me what's up or I'm going to get Sloan in here. I'm not a patient man, Keefer."

"Nooooooo, you can't get Sloan in here."

"I swear to God Don —" Elliot starts, his voice escalating.

"I have an appointment at Cartier tomorrow and I don't know what I am looking for," Don says, his words in a rush.

Elliot raises his eyebrows. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"Whoa."

"Basically said that already."

"This is big."

"Little bit."

"Congrats."

"I get it, alright?"

"You think she'll say yes?"

"I figured I'd drop a ridiculous amount of money on this thing and then turn around three times and spit," Don says. "We've discussed it. A ... little bit. It's been discussed."

"You've discussed this," Elliot raises an eyebrow.

"You know, generally. We had this talk, about it, in May, and now I do this thing, where I ask her every day."

"You what?"

"As a — as a thing. It's more of an 'I want to marry you whenever you want to marry me' thing," he explains, pacing. This is incredibly hard to discuss while still sounding manly. "It's our thing."

"You've been asking her to marry you without a ring? Dude," Elliot shakes his head. "You don't do that to a woman. Even Sloan. Especially Sloan. You bring your A-game for this. Dinner, ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne, brass bands, maybe some choreography. A speech. For god's sake, at least come up with a speech."

"It's romantic! It's our thing," Don protests. "It started like, I don't know, three months ago. She's got this thing where she doesn't want to move in with anyone until she's engaged —"

"Of course Sabbith doesn't," Elliot shakes his head.

"Anyways. So I ask her to move in with me every day," he says. "I'm actually asking her to marry me when I say that. She knows it. And sometimes she laughs and sometimes she says when I learn how to fold laundry and sometimes she says she needs more time and sometimes she says when Charlie starts going to Alcoholics Anonymous. You know. It's our thing."

"So why are you buying the ring now? Cat's out of the bag, why don't you wait till you seal the deal?"

"Mixed metaphors, Elliot, disappointing," he says.

"I'm serious. You've already goofed on making it a surprise, you're on this weird warpy casual thing, why not just wait till she says yes?"

"It's going to be soon, and I want to be ready," he says.

"Do you have a plan? You know, for when the non-asking gets old."

He shrugs. "I didn't say I had it all worked out and was going to ask tomorrow. Anyways. You gotta come with me. You're the only person I trust that's done this."

"I think that says more about you than me."

"Great. The appointment is at three. And, you know, please don't tell her."

Elliot snorts. "Yes, because I would hate to ruin the surprise of this all."

And so the next day, feeling slightly like a fraud, Don meets Elliot at Cartier's Fifth Ave flagship. He's got Sloan's high school class ring, which he swiped from her jewelry box last week, in one pocket, his AmEx card in the other, and is practically vibrating with nerves.

"This is it," Elliot says as they walk in. "Biggest purchase of your life."

"Yup. It is."

"Well, until you buy a house, or pay for your kids' college tuition. Or elementary school tuition, even. Do you think you guys will stay in the city? You seem like the type. Have you talked about kids? What about private school?"

"Not helping, Elliot."

"Do you know what you're looking for?"

He turns. "A ring, Elliot."

"No, I mean, cushion cut or marquis cut, gold or platinum, the little pave diamonds or no."

He stops. "Oh my god. I have no idea." He's so flustered he forgets to mock Elliot.

"What has she said?"

"About what?"

"About what type of ring she wants?"

"Why would I ask her? It's a surprise."

Elliot stares. "You have to ask her what type of ring she wants."

"It's a surprise!"

"Oh my god. We're going into a diamond store ready to drop two or three months' worth of your salary based on your gut."

"Hey. I have good taste." Elliot starts laughing. "Oh, come on. Give me a little credit."

"Uh, we're ring shopping with no idea of what you want in Cartier. You have sucker tattooed on your forehead. They are going to rob you blind and make you to beg for the privilege."

"Hi, I have an appointment," he says to the first attendant he sees, before he loses it. "Uh, Don, Don Keefer. For, you know …"

"Engagement rings?" the unimpressed, nattily dressed clerk asks. "Yes, I can tell." He signals to a woman, who strolls over. "Anna, it's your three o'clock. Don Keefer?"

Anna is tiny, older, and probably Russian. "Wonderful to meet you," she says, with a smile that signals it's anything but. "You are looking for an engagement ring, yes?"

"Yes. For my girlfriend," he says. "This is … he's a friend."

"Naturally," Anna smiles. "Come. This way." She leads them to a narrow mahogany desk with a glass top and two plush green chairs. He sits down gingerly and Elliot lingers awkwardly, leaning his large frame against a wall. "Now, how would you describe your girlfriend? Her personality? Jewelry preferences?"

"Uh, she's awesome. She's, um, she's super-smart, really funny, about five-four, she likes … clothes. And economics journals and pad Thai at midnight. She's classy. Like, really, really classy. And funny. I said funny, right?"

"Alright. What type of jewelry does she wear? Does she wear more gold or platinum, for instance?"

"Uh, she likes both?" he tries. "She doesn't like tons of jewelry. Like, she wears earrings. Tiny ones though. With, you know, little diamonds? And necklaces. And sometimes watches. Those are mostly gold though. And her favorite watch is black." Elliot snickers behind him. "But they're like, smaller watches. Not …you know," he gestures helplessly.

Anna purses her lips. "Why don't I bring out a few trays and you can tell me what you think she might like?"

"Yes! I mean, sure. That would be great." Anna nods, and leaves.

Elliot starts laughing. "This is going real well, here."

"How did you pick Jeannie's ring?"

He shrugs. "Easy. She did. We were walking past a jewelry store, and she went look at that one right there third from the left, I like it a lot."

"Ok, you give me crap for telegraphing to Sloan that I want to get married, and you had Jeannie pick out her own fucking ring?"

Anna returns with a tray. "We have a few to start with. Please, tell me what you think of these."

He stares at them. "Definitely not the pointy-style ones or the round ones," he says, pointing to a marquis-cut one and then a round one. "They're … She's not them, you know? She's super-strong, and she's completely feminine, but those are just, I don't know, too girly? Like she's not going to have one of those big ball gowns for a wedding dress. Those are ballgown rings. And nothing too blingy. She's not into a lot of bling."

"Alright, no 'ballgown' rings," Anna says, working her mouth around the words like it's a foreign language or something. "And no bling."

"And, you know what, I like gold. It's different, I know —" he doesn't actually know, but about three-fourths of the rings she's showing him are platinum or white gold, so he figures it is, "but they're way more like Sloan. They're classic. She's super classic. And they're striking, and more unique. That's more her. She's not really trendy, and she doesn't wear a lot of flashy stuff. Like, if you look at a picture of her from now in 20 years, you won't be able to tell what year the photo was in. She'll still look great. I mean, I'll always think she looks great, but, you know. Objectively. She'll look great. She's got, you know, a timeless look." He fully realizes he's rambling, and he completely blames Sloan for that trait. "Can I see more of the square ones? I like that. They look super … strong. She would like those too."

Anna nods. "Square ones that look super strong and are gold and not ballgowny or blingy." She walks off.

He turns to Elliot. "We're getting somewhere!" Elliot rolls his eyes helplessly.

She brings out a smaller tray. All of the rings on it were square-looking and gold. "These over here, that are more rectangular, are called emerald cut. These, which are more square, are called cushion-cut." She looks at him as if he is a very simple child. "Now, would you prefer a setting with pave diamonds?"

"Come again?"

"Tiny diamonds on the outside," she explains, pointing. "No tiny diamonds on the outside," she points to another one.

He scans the trays and zeros in on one. He picks it up carefully. It's an emerald-cut diamond, surrounded by lots of the tiny pave diamonds, with a band that splits into two bands on either side, which inherently looks more supportive. There are more tiny diamonds on the four legs supporting the big diamond. It looks slightly vintage but mostly classic — the band is gold — and delicate and strong all at once, and definitely not like something he's ever seen before. It's not too big or flashy, both of which she would hate. Most importantly, it looks like something Sloan would wear, and love, and be proud of, and that their daughters (if they had them) and granddaughters would want to borrow. He holds it up to Elliot, who sucks in a breath and nods.

"This one," he says.

She picks it up from him. "This is a 3-carat emerald-cut diamond in a split-shank 18-karat rose gold setting, with an additional .75 carats in pave diamonds. The diamond is an impeccable specimen — color grade E, with a very good cut and a very, very slightly included clarity." All of those things mean nothing to him.

"That's a good ring, bro." Elliot says. "You should get it."

He fishes out the class ring. "This is hers, from high school. She still wears it. I figured you could use it for size comparisons. Will this one fit?"

Anna peers at both. "No, it is too big. We can re-size this. It should take about two weeks."

"Two weeks," he sits back.

"Do you need it more quickly, for a special proposal?" she probes.

"No. No, no. I honestly have no idea how I am proposing. Take all the time you need." Anna scribbles a lot of information down, and then takes his Amex, and processes many things, and then reminds him to get the ring added to his insurance — oh, fuck yes, that is happening — and then, excruciatingly, he signs about sixty papers and promises to return in fourteen days. The ring is more than he had budgeted, but he figures that this is the only time he's going to buy one of these, so he's going to say screw it. He walks out in a daze.

"Should I have asked her her opinion? Shit. I should have asked her for her opinion. That was a really expensive mistake."

"Dude," Elliot claps him on his shoulder. "That ring is perfect. But let's get you drunk before you realize just how much money you spent."

"It's four p.m."

"And you're a few years' worth of college tuition poorer. Come on. You handled that mostly on your own. Least I can do is buy you a beer."

They end up at a bar a few blocks away, and Don leans his head back against the red vinyl seat as Elliot tracks down tricks. It feels all swimmy. Maybe he should put it between his knees. Elliot places a beer and a shot of whiskey in front of him. "Drink the whiskey first," Elliot orders.

"Oh my god I just bought an engagement ring," he says, rubbing his face.

"What happened to Mr. 'I'm good, I ask her to marry me every day'?"

"That guy just bought an engagement ring! What do I do with it?"

Elliot slides into the booth, rubbing his own wedding ring with his thumb. "I think you ask her to marry you."

"How did you ask Jeannie? Brass band, ring in a champagne glass, everything, really?"

Elliot laughs. "Well, I had this whole thing planned. We were young — she was still in law school, Christ, and living in the shittiest apartment in New Haven — and since I'd just dropped all the money I had on the ring, I figured, might as well be economical. So I baked a lasagna and I was going to, you know, put the ring on top of the tiramisu, and make this speech, and it was going to be great. But then she got sick and didn't want to leave her apartment, so I thought, great, I'll go over and make everything at her place. But then the ovens were different and the thing burned, and then when I was taking it out of the oven her stupid cat that I hated jumped up on me, so I dropped the damn thing on the floor and she came in because it was loud and we started fighting and there was this big whole mess so we're yelling and she's upset that I wanted to do a big fucking thing since she was sick so I just … proposed," he shrugs. "Got down on my knee in the middle of the spilled lasagna and gave her my speech and everything."

"Whoa, wait. You were giving me shit for asking her to move in with me — which is our thing so therefore awesome — and you proposed with tomato sauce on your knee?"

"I gave a speech and it made her cry. You're doing what, exactly? Asking her to move in with you every day as part of a, what? A thing?"

Don stares. "Maybe, I … we go on a vacation."

"It's July. There's an election in four months. You just went to Costa Rica. When are the two of you going to get the time?"

"We're going to the Republican convention together!"

"It's in Tampa."

"Good point. Uh … horse carriage ride! Central Park!"

"Isn't Sloan allergic?"

"Shit."

Elliot stares. "Ok, let's think about what you're going to say."

Don puts his head down and whimpers.

He's weird all week. Sloan asks him twice, semi-seriously, if he's dying or if they're breaking up. "Uh … no?" he says.

"You sure? If either of those things are happening, some advance warning would be nice," she says, stealing a piece of broccoli out of his container of Thai food.

He can't say anything, so he leans forward and kisses her. "Move in with me?" he asks, because he hasn't said that yet that day.

She smirks and snatches another bite. "After you get better taste in Thai food."

He finally gets a call from Anna informing him that the ring is ready for pickup, and he practically trips into Elliot's office. "What do I do when I get the ring?"

Elliot stares at him, long and hard. "You ask her to marry you."

"Right," he inhales. "Ok."

He cuts out of work when Sloan's on at four, cabbing to the store. "I'm here," he says to the same unimpressed guy up front. "I need to talk to Anna."

"Right this way," the guy says, leading him to the same tiny desk. "Wait here."

Anna comes up and says, "Yes. Mr. Keefer. Hello," she smiles tightly. "We have your ring."

"Can I … see it?"

"Of course. It's yours," she places it in front of him. He pops it open and, dear god, he can hear the angels singing. He blinks at its sparkliness. "Whoa."

"It's a lovely ring," she says, sounding genuine for the first time. "She's a lucky woman. You made a great choice."

He smiles, and wonders wear to put it (his pocket? That seems un-secure), thanks her, and heads out, holding it gingerly. Once he gets back to ACN, he sneaks into Elliot's office and puts the ring on his desk.

"Thanks, but I'm already taken," Elliot says. "Seriously. Why are you putting this here?"

"Where else do you put it?!" Don says.

"That's ... actually a fair question," Elliot says. "Oh — Will has a safe. Put it in Will's office."

"You want me to tell Will about this?"

"Tell me about what?" Will says from behind, because of course.

"Oh dear god my life is ending," Don says as Will enters.

"Don just got a ring for Sloan. Here, look," Elliot tosses it to Will as Don makes a strangled sound he doesn't really recognize. Will catches it ably. "He needs a place to store it for a few days; can he keep it in your safe?"

"I'm … taking it home tonight. I am. I just … could you store it until then?"

Will pops it open and whistles. "Nice job. Cartier?"

"Her dad bought her a necklace from there when she graduated Duke; it's her favorite."

"How are you going to ask her?"

"Yeah. Still working that one out."

"Do you want to keep it in the safe until then?"

"No, I'll take it home. Put it in my sock drawer."

"She'll find it," Will points out.

"Yeah, I don't care."

"You want her to marry you, right?"

"Yeah. We talked this out months ago. She doesn't want a big snazzy proposal with the champagne glasses and the tiramisu and the brass band."

"All women want the romance. And the surprise," Will argues.

Don raises his eyebrow, because if Will thinks he's going to take his romantic advice, he's got to be kidding. "Yeah, you think any of that is her idea of romance?" he asks. "No. We were talking, and I asked her how she saw us getting married. She said she wanted something low-key — we're talking City Hall. We just decide, she said, and then we do it. And I'm there. I'm on board. The ring … this is just so I'm set." He thinks about when he asked Maggie to move in with him, how generic and cheesy and terrible it was. He's not going to do something like that with Sloan. "She knows I'm serious and we both know where this is going. If she finds the ring, what the hell. The ring doesn't change anything about our current state, and if I decide I want to propose right now I don't want to have to come back here and grovel in front of you two and get all … flustered. I want the ring ready to go when we decide to make this official," he shrugs, feeling more confident. "I ask her every day, and I'm serious. When she thinks it's right, it's right. And hell, it could be tomorrow. So I'm taking it home tonight." He nods definitively.

Will turns to Elliot. "Are we supposed to feel proud of young Padawan here?"

Elliot just shakes his head and purses his lips. "No. We are not." Elliot turns back to him. "Let me get this straight. You're just going to put it in your sock drawer, not care if she sees it, then continue to half-assedly ask each day and wait for her answer to change?"

"He looks like he understands women, I would listen," Will adds. Don thinks Will's trying to be funny, but he's not sure. From the looks of it, Elliot isn't either.

"What I'm asking is whether you're sure — sure — that Sloan is on the same page as you with your stoner-kid approach to proposing? That she doesn't think you're, you know, joking?" Elliot says. He cocks his head, because he's pretty sure it's romantic.

"Uh, yes," he says, suddenly not quite sure at all.

"When do you want to marry Sloan?" Will says.

"When?"

"Yeah. You've been dating for eight months, which seems fast—"

"To you," Don points out, because he's feeling petulant, and because they've all had to deal with the Mac-and-Will merry-go-round for years. Low blow, he admits.

Will rolls his eyes. "Fine. You say you've talked about this, so. When do you want to get married? Or engaged? This year? Next year? Two years?"

He nods, processing. "Uh. No. Soon," he nods again. "Soon."

"Ok. So what if your whole 'move in with me' schtick doesn't take in say, two months? What are you going to do then?" Elliot asks, catching Will's drift. "I'm just saying, maybe you should make sure that the whole asking-daily thing is going to pay off soon. Or maybe you need a plan B."

It's food for thought. He elects to walk around with the ring in his pocket, just in case, and because he doesn't trust Will to give him the ring back. He's very happy that Sloan thinks his place is good for the evening, since he honestly had not thought that much about where to hide it at Sloan's.

She waits at Hang Chew's for him to finish, and they head home together. He sneaks into the bedroom and folds the box into a pair of socks, then freaks out and simply sets it under some socks, since a lot of his socks are black and he's worried that he might forget which pair he used.

When he comes out of his bedroom he follows the music to the kitchen. She's at the sink, listening to some of her jazzy stuff on an iPad, doing dishes left over from god knows when. The whole scene — her barefoot, in his kitchen, after midnight, swaying to one of those songs that cuts you deep to the bone — makes him just so goddamn happy. She's in a plain plum T-shirt and black jeans and no makeup and the certainty with which he wants this every night, in this kitchen or in another kitchen they remodel together or next to a dumpster in Times Square, is overwhelming.

He slides behind her, linking his hands around her stomach. She jumps a little, but settles back into him. "Hey," she murmurs, her lips against his neck. "Want to help with the dishes?"

"Mmmm," he demurs, then kisses her temple. "Move in with me," he asks, because he hasn't asked today.

"Can't, the dishes aren't done yet," she teases, but she drops the soapy dish to twist in his arms, sliding her wet hands around his neck. He shudders at their coolness as she kisses him.

"I love you," he says, seriously and suddenly, as they break away.

She grins, that delighted, surprised grin that sometimes he just doesn't get, because of course he loves her. She brings a hand up to his face, thumbs his cheekbone, and says, "I love you too," with a firm, final tone in her voice.

"What's this song?" he asks, as he begins to sway them.

She tilts her head to the side, shoves the heel of her hand into his shoulder lightly. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"I probably play this song about twenty times a week. You don't know its name?"

"It sounds familiar," he says, because it does, but when he listens to music, it's usually either rap, or rock-ier than whatever this is. "It's nice. I like it," he says, because it is nice and he does like it.

"It's Ray LaMontagne," she says, as the song shifts. "I listen to him all the time."

"Well what's this one called?"

She listens for a second. "'Let It Be Me,'" she replies. "It's my second favorite."

"Which one's your favorite?"

She blushes a little. "You'd recognize it — it's got the trumpets. 'You are the Best Thing.'"

He twists, keeping an arm around her, and finds it on her iPad. She's right; he does recognize it. As they're dancing to it, he murmurs, again, "Move in with me."

She pulls back. "That's the second time you asked. You never ask twice."

"I'm serious about it, you know that, right?" he searches her face, and swallows, a little nervously. "This isn't a joke, you know that right?"

"Don," she says, in a hushed voice, stopping dancing. Suddenly, the joyful, open-hearted song feels massively incongruous. "Of course I know it's not a joke," she bites her lip, suddenly nervous, worried that maybe she did something wrong, and scratches at the nape of his neck. "Were you ever just going along with it, were you, because you thought I was … did you think I was joking? Because I'm not. "

"No, I didn't think you were joking," he says quickly. The emphasis on the 'I' is inadvertent, and he cringes. He hopes she doesn't catch the inflection and start interrogating him.

She doesn't, though. "Ok. Because I do. I just …" she stops.

"What?"

"I was going to say, I just want to be sure, but that's wrong, I am sure," she bites her lip and studies him. "I guess maybe ready is a better word? Do you feel ready? We said … Because we said …"

"We said no drama, we said quickly, we said personal," he repeats, "And I still want that."

"Ok. Yes. That's what we said," she repeats. "And I still do too. So maybe it's more I still don't feel like it's quite right? Wait. That sounds worse. I take that back."

"I get it," he says, quickly, trying to re-rail the conversation.

"No you don't," she says quickly. "Please don't lie to me." She gives him a look, and he nods.

"Sorry," he says, since one of their rules is no lying.

"I get it. Look. I love you. I … fully intend on marrying you. When I make a plan, or think about the future, it's with the expectation that you're there too. I think we should get married. I do. And I know you're ready whenever. But do you … want to get married this weekend? Do you want to … be married? Now? Do you think it's time?" Her face is open; her voice is emphatic, trusting, searching. She wants to talk this out.

He thinks for a second, then realizes. "Not if you don't." Part of the fun — and the fear — of this route is the crazy-hopeful-unrealistic expectation that they'll both decide, simultaneously, that it's time. And if she doesn't want to, he doesn't want to.

"Okay. Because it is soon, and what we have is … working and .. I think there's a difference between being ready to get married and wanting to be married. I want to get married to you; but it's just not complicated by some burning, overwhelming need to be so now. I like this, for now. Probably not for too much longer but … I'm not sure I'm ready to be married. And I … there's a difference, there is. So I just need a little," she holds her fingers apart just a miniscule amount, which is comforting, "more time to be there. And I don't think it's hurting anything, that we're not there yet. I like where we —"

"Hey," he says quickly, because he gets it now. "I get it. I meant it, when I said I just wanted to get married at some point. So if you don't want to yet, I don't want to. We're on the same page," he smiles crookedly. "I just wanted to be sure."

"Why were you ever not sure? Did I …"

"No," he interrupts. "I just … A guy puts himself out there, says he wants to marry you, and it becomes a thing, that's cool. But he wants to make sure it's more than just a schtick. That you're clear on how absolutely I want to … I … love you. I want to marry you. I just wanted to make sure it's clear."

She stops, stands up a little straighter. "Crystal," she assures. She pushes herself up on the balls of her feet, wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him deeply. He walks her back to the counter as she starts working his shirt off.

"What about the dishes?" he mutters.

"Damn the dishes," she says, with spirit, as she twists his arms out of his shirt. He hoists her up as she sheds her own shirt and then bra. When he goes for her jeans, though, she pushes him back. "Bedroom," she commands, hopping down and sliding her hands down his stomach to his belt. "I'm freezing." She walks out of her pants, kicking them onto the floor. She means business.

"No complaints here," he mutters as he follows her, ghosting his hands up her ribs and kissing her neck as they walk. She arches her back, moans a little, reaches her fingers behind her to grab his hair. When they get to his room, he spins her around, focuses on her chest, runs his fingers lower as she leans back onto the bed, shucking his pants as she goes.

She pulls him down with her, wiggles deliciously under him. Just as he's moving to get to work, though, she stills, pulling him up by his cheeks, her legs bracing his body. She licks her lips, and her eyes are potent and smoldering and absolutely serious as she suspends his face above her own. "I mean it, you know," she says. "When I say, 'soon.' I mean soon. Like really soon. So get ready, pal."

He wonders fleetingly if she's intuited the ring already — he wouldn't put it past her to have some sort of Spidey sense about expensive investments. But as he stares at her, he sees some doubt, some uncertainty there — she's worried that if she jumps blind he won't be there holding her hand. Which is so far from true. He's so bound up with her, so tethered by his want and his need to her, for all of her, that he recognizes it's probably impossible to disentangle his from hers at this point. He leans down and kisses her briefly, all lips, nothing else. He moves to her eyes, her nose, her jawline, her cheek, even her forehead, peppering her entire face before finally moving back to stare at her. "You jump, I jump," he says simply. "I jump, you jump. For … all of it," he says, it meaning life, meaning the rest of the decisions he ever makes, because that's what he means. "That's where I am. That's where we are, ok? We're here, together."

A few days later, he notices that his sock drawer has been surreptitiously rifled through and scrupulously rearranged. She knows there's a ring. He wonders if she'll say yes as they're lying on the couch that night, her feet in his lap and her eyes lazily half-closed. But she just smiles and says soon. He takes the ring with him when they go to cover the convention together, and asks her to move in again when they're dancing under the balloons after the Journey concert, and she just laughs and says, really soon.

And then Genoa and Benghazi and the world blows up, and neither of them get sleep for days. Mac and Sloan get into some spat, and Mac has to send him to tell Sloan about changes to the rundown. He's standing to the side of the camera, bleary-eyed and wearing the same red sweater he's worn for three days, when he casually shoots off, "Move in with me?" at the end of the conversation, because he can't tell up from down and isn't sure if he's asked even once in the last forty-eight hours.

And she surprises the hell out of him. "Sure. This weekend?"

Fuck. "Yeah?" Is she really absolutely serious? Because … yes.

"Yeah."

The seventy-two papers slide out of his hands. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a hard kiss, in front of the staff, who must be absolutely confused. The cameraman coughs awkwardly, and he rushes off-camera, but says to hell with everything else swirling around them, and just watches her. Because she is impressive.

As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office. She's practically giggling, though that might be from deliriousness. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her, wrapping his arms around her, losing himself in her. He pulls back, leaving their foreheads touching. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"

"Yes," she breathes, searching his face like she doesn't quite believe it either. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it," she adds.

"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."

And somehow, they make it happen. There is plenty of skulking around; one upshot to the whole Genoa mess, to everyone being absolutely driven out of their minds with worry and anger, is that nobody notices when she leaves for three hours to pick out a wedding dress, or when he ducks out for 45 minutes to haggle with the restaurant or try on a suit (gray, with a reddish-pink tie, per Sloan's specifications). His mother calls every five minutes to inquire about hotel rooms and what to tell his (uninvited) aunts; her parents arrive in town on Thursday and call him during News Night since they can't get ahold of Sloan, and he does a metaphorical (and nearly literal) tap-dance to keep them from coming up to the studio. On Friday, they finalize the ACN list: Will, Mac, Elliot, Charlie. They tell Charlie together, and he cries, though he pretends not to. Will breaks out Scotch for both of them and calls people at City Hall on their . Elliot gives him such a resounding thump on his back that he's pretty sure he's going to have a bruised back.

The one downside to doing it the low-key way, and waiting to tell everyone until Monday, is that she's not going to wear the ring in public. But he's got a plan for that. She sticks around late to wait for him — even though there are probably a thousand things she should be doing — so they don't arouse suspicion. As they're walking out, hours after everyone else, she muses, "When we walk in those doors again, we'll be married."

"About that," he says, spinning around to face her. "I asked you one question — repeatedly — but I didn't ask you another important question."

She looks confused. "What are you talking about? Is this about the apartments? Kenzie brought that up and I think we should talk about that —"

He kisses her to stop her from talking and then, still holding her hands, drops to one knee. Her expression changes from confusion to laughter, and she says, "Oh, my god, it's raining, get up, you goon," but tears come to the corner of her eyes as she waits for him to speak.

"Sloan Aiko Sabbith," he starts, smiling, "we have gone about this in an admittedly unorthodox fashion," a smile cracks across his face, "but I wouldn't have it happen in any other way. I love you. In a shout-from-the-rooftops, want-to-actually-learn-something-about-economics, paint-a-kitchen-on-a-Saturday, plan-a-wedding-in-four-days, spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you, way. You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me, and you make me want to always just be better. I am the luckiest guy in the world, and want to spend the rest of my life making you feel the way you make me feel on a random Tuesday. So, Sloan," he says, kind of tearing up, but in a manly way, as he grabs the ring box, "will you marry me? Tomorrow?"

"I said yes four months ago and three days ago, and I meant it," she says, squeezing his fingers. "Yes. Of course. Yes. Now get up, you're going to get sick. You're kneeling in a puddle, Don."

He finally — finally — gets to slip the ring on her finger, and it is as perfect as he pictured when he dragged Elliot to Cartier. And the next day? When he marries her? He's just lucky they remembered to call his buddy the photographer. Because otherwise it's a perfect blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I really, really loved in 'The West Wing' and wish they did more of in 'The Newsroom' is the bromance. Josh, Sam, and Toby being "collectively, The Men," was awesome. I get all of the reasons why it's not developed as much in 'Newsroom,' but I miss it. Desperately.
> 
> So this is my attempt at rectifying that. I find Elliot underutilized, and of all the guys on the show, he is absolutely the one that Don would go to for the ring help. I wanted the snark and, ultimately, the heart that it would bring. I love how much crap Elliot gives him, but then it turns out that he completely botched the proposal as well. And I love crazy-desperate Don getting the snark from Will.
> 
> I also really wanted to include an actual, down-on-the-knee proposal from Don's perspective. It wasn't something that would necessarily register as important to Sloan — as far as she is concerned, she got engaged in May — but it's something that Don, as The Guy, would insist on doing. Hence, it's something that Don would highlight in his recollections, but not something that comes up in Sloan's perspective. That's also the reason that the actual wedding ceremony doesn't make it into any of the chapters — that's not one of the twenty-eight most important moments to either of them.
> 
> I'm not sure if it's clear, timing-wise, but Don bought the ring within days after getting back from their first vacation to Costa Rica (that's not supposed to be clear now, but it was probably a reveal I made way, way too subtly). So the conversations there, I think, really sealed it for him. And even though he convinced Sloan that marriage was in the future, I do love second-guessing Don. He's one of my (many, many) favorites.
> 
> When I initially posted a lot of these, we hadn't figured out when Genoa happened, and the role Benghazi played. So I had to go back and do a bit of ret-conning. I think it ultimately works, but I hope the reasons Sloan didn't really want to get married — and then why she did — are clear. Ultimately, I think it makes a lot more sense when you throw in the impetus of this life-or-death work crisis.


	7. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: Hey all! Another installment of "Hearts" here — I've been making good time on these, and struggling a bit with "Thicker than forget," so hopefully this will tide you over. This one is more Sloan than Don, and I'm worried the ending is a little too rushed/artsy, so I'd love to hear your feedback! As per usual, I don't own the characters (minus the wonderful Topher), or the lyrics. Also, there is definitely some post-PG-13 allusions here.

Well, I've always had a wild imagination

And you see through the heart

Which I know can be a wild combination

Like a flame formed from a spark

But don't be shy, be brave, little champion

It's better to live than to hide

-Noah and the Whale, "Just Before We Met"

March

One of the many things Sloan appreciates about Don is that their definitions of 'dates' are usually equally as lame. Which is why, at midnight and after a 14-hour day at work, they're at Harry's Diner as she grades and he blocks out tomorrow's show. They're comfortably slanted toward each other, her head on his shoulder, a plate of lobster mac'n'cheese and a tomato soup with two spoons between them. She's got a decaf coffee, he has a beer, and she's in what he's dubbed her 'incognito' outfit: ACN hat, glasses, jeans, no makeup and an oversized hoodie zipped over a T-shirt. It's nice.

"So how significant is the unemployment in the Euro zone? Not in a Sloan Sabbith, 'every economics story is incredibly important way,' in a practical way."

"Incredibly important, especially in a practical way," she says, underlining a sentence in an essay and correcting the grammar. "Why?" She lifts her head to look at him.

"Trying to figure out if we want it in the B-block or the C-block."

"How about the A-block?" she smiles.

"Sloan?" a shadow crosses in front of their booth, and she looks up. Holy God.

"Topher," she says, pressing her feet into the floor to straighten into a seated position — she'd been slouched down far in order to rest her feet on the opposite booth. "Hey."

"Hi," her ex-fiance replies, smiling a little awkwardly. "I thought that was you. But you know, the cap…" he gestures. He's still Harvard handsome, wearing a Burberry coat and (she guesses) Prada shoes.

"Right. Yeah. Long day, lots of hairspray … you know," she smiles, then remembers her manners, though she doesn't stand up. "Topher, this is Don, my boyfriend. Don, this is Topher," she introduces, no-label-necessary.

Don actually knows all about Topher, has known about the broken engagement for years. He had been the first person at ACN to find out the impetus behind her leaving finance — she'd drunkenly told him after knowing him for all of ten hours ("fast friends" was kind of an understatement). Over the years, they'd talked about him, fairly frequently, as she'd entered and exited the dating pool. But even though he knows about Topher, it has only been in oblique bits and incomplete pieces, has only been what she'd felt comfortable telling him in the moment. Conversations stopped and started on her terms, in a way they couldn't — wouldn't — if they broached it now. Now that they are sleeping together. Now that they are together.

A woman, super put-together for midnight on a Tuesday, appears next to Topher as Don extends his hand for a shake. Sloan knows she's objectively prettier than this woman — not that it matters, Sloan, be less shallow, she scolds herself — but it's intimidating to see someone with a perfect blowout and unwrinkled $500 pants after a 15-hour day.

"Uh, Sloan, this is Amanda Alexander," there's no identifier attached, but it's clear they're at least sleeping together. "Amy, this is Sloan Sabbith. We, uh, we …"

"Dated," Sloan supplies. "A long time ago," she emphasizes, because she does not want to get into the whole broken-engagement-because-he's-a-cheating-bastard side of things. Don gives her a side-eye. He's predisposed not to like Topher, which means he'll get overprotective, which means he'll get arrogant, which means he'll get snarky, which means that he'll run his fat stupid Don Keefer mouth and try and handle it. Which will come from a sweet place but he'll take it too far and absolutely make her livid. She squeezes his thigh in warning.

"Hi," Amanda — Amy — says, then does a double-take. "You look familiar, sorry."

"Sloan worked at Goldman too, a while back. She left … almost four years ago," Topher supplies.

"Oh, really? I've been in risk management there since 2006. What department?" Amy smiles.

"I was a managing director of forecasting and research," she smiles awkwardly. Amy connects her age to her title, and nods with respect. Yeah, bitch.

"She's on TV now, maybe that's it?" Don suggests, clearly trying to toe a line between supportive boyfriend and possessive asshole. She side-eyes him back a bit, because she has this. Mostly.

"Oh really? What kind of TV?"

"News. I'm the chief financial correspondent for ACN and anchor two market shows," her smile is frozen. She actively wants to disappear; she actively wants them to disappear.

"Oh, maybe that's it. Toph, do you think that's it?" she nudges Topher.

"Uh … maybe? I don't know," he says. "I … didn't know you were still doing TV, honestly."

"Yup. Every day. Not that hard to verify. You just have to turn on the television to find out. Two and four o'clock. And then eight and sometimes ten," Don verbally eye-rolls, and she really, really wants to stomp on his foot, but that might be obvious.

"Yeah, no, I guess I just figured you'd go back to a bank or, you know, real economics eventually … Anyways," he smiles, "that's great."

"Yeah, it is," she says. "What about you? Are you still in M&A?"

"Arbitrage, actually, now," he says. "At BlackRock."

"Ah haha, that's awesome," she wheezes, because of course he is in arbitrage. It's the douchiest of all the jobs. "Have you seen Delaney lately? I haven't kept up with the Goldman crowd at all."

"Oh, Delaney Yancy? Did you know her?" Amy smiles.

"We did. She was closer to Topher, though." She considers saying tell her I say hi, but wonders if that's too far.

Topher pales a little, and she smiles. Good. "I haven't, no. Not since I left Goldman. Anyways, it looks like you guys are busy," — he gestures toward their paper-strewn table — "and it's getting pretty late. So, Sloan, it was nice to see you. And, uh, Don — good to meet you. Take care of her."

Don shakes his head suddenly, like he's been overcome by a tic. "Yeah, don't worry about that, bud."

"We do both have some work to do," Sloan smiles tightly. "Good to see you."

She nudges her elbow in Don's side discreetly, and he obliges. "Nice to meet you," he sighs, and Topher steers Amy out by the elbow.

Sloan stares at the nonsensical essay until they're far away. Don waits patiently. "So we're never coming back here again," she finally says, still staring at the essay. She grips her pen tighter.

"Come on. We come here like twice a week, and you love this macaroni," he complains, then nudges her gently with his elbow. "So. That was Topher?"

"Yup. That was Topher," she says, returning her eyes to the paper in front of her. "Which was pretty obvious from my introduction." She gathers her papers and scoots out of the booth. "I'm going home."

"One sec," he says, flipping the cover across his iPad and rifling through his wallet for a few twenties as she heads for the door. "Jesus, slow down." She doesn't want to shout, so she just purses her lips and waits. She could insist that she's going home alone, but he would argue with her; plus, it's sixty-odd blocks to his apartment and it's past midnight. That would be mean.

They're just two blocks from her apartment, though, so they walk through the silent, wet streets, her leading, him just a tense half-step behind, until they reach her place. She opens the door, letting him walk in behind her, and he says, "So, I know you're probably going to be pissed at me for making the offer, but I just want to state for the record that I —"

She doesn't let him finish, though, deciding in a split second to propel him backwards with a kiss, using his body to shut the door. She winds a hand up to latch the door. "Don't talk," she commands. "Just — let me." He stares at her for a second, but she bites her lip, so he kisses her back, hard. This is one of the things she appreciates most about Don.

He lets her take the lead, yanking off his henley, raking her nails down his chest, snapping his belt off. He's aggressive, which is what she needs. He grounds her She pushes him onto the bed, kissing him bumpily as she pulls off his pants, and he manages to work the zipper of her jeans down and worm his fingers in, massaging her. It calms her but also turns her on, and she moans as she pulls down his boxers. He stops her for a second, kissing a line down her forehead, over the ridge of her nose, dots a kiss on her chin before going over her clavicle and down her sternum. She loses herself for a minute before yanking him back up and sliding herself onto him.

Later, after they're both done, she gets up and slides his discarded shirt on, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. She pads out to the kitchen, puts on some water to boil. She leans on the counter as the water begins to percolate, twisting her big toe into the ground.

A few minutes later, she hears Don's footsteps. "Hey," she says when he appears in his boxers. She scratches at the nape of her neck, mindlessly scraping at some old scab. "You want hot chocolate?"

He stares at her. "Sure," he finally decides. "That'd be great." She nods quickly, as he pulls a package of Oreos down from her top shelf. He twists one, offers her the cream side.

She stares at him, and the Oreo. "I shouldn't." She needs to brush her teeth.

"Come on. You had a sucky day," he cajoles.

She takes it, finishes it in two bites. "Ok," she says. "Why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong here? I don't think I'm in the wrong so I don't know why I should be feeling this."

He shrugs as she grabs two mugs and begins to prep their drinks. "I don't know why you're feeling this. You could tell me, but that's entirely your choice." His voice is open, suggestive, not passive-aggressive.

But she's annoyed anyways. "You know, when I said that you were a nice guy, I didn't mean that you were a pushover. If you have something you want to say, say it."

He sucks in a breath, and chooses his words carefully. "I don't know, Sloan. If you want to talk about why running into your asshole ex has put you in this mood, sure, I will listen and I will talk and I will be supportive. I have a few questions. But this? It's your thing. I'm not …," he looks down, pursing his lips. "Do I have a lot of questions? Yes. Am I worried by how this is affecting you? Yes. But yeah, I am trying not to be an asshole. He treated you like shit, Sloan, he did, like absolute shit. And you don't deserve that. You just don't. So the way I see it? The least I can do is not force you to talk about it. To not be like him and … make you feel bad. Would I … like to go and punch him, or … I don't know, run a story accusing him of fraud and malpractice —"

"He's in finance, it's all malpractice," she smirks, handing him his cocoa.

"Whatever," he says, blowing on the liquid. "My point is, if I thought it would make you feel any better without being totally disrespectful and douchey, I'd do it. But I honestly can't think of what I can or should say that wouldn't be a complete misogynistic dick move, and I'm trying not to be that guy, so I'm going to wait until you say something."

She's struck then, by just how deeply he cares for her. And how different he is than Topher or Scott or Riley or any of the guys she's dated in the past. His hair is rumpled, his body is red with marks she left, he looks like he's a little worried he's offended her, and she can honestly say she's never felt this way about anyone, ever.

So she grabs the package of Oreos — even though she shouldn't be eating this crap so late — and picks up her mug. She tilts her head toward the bedroom. "Come on. It's cold." Once they settle back in bed — he's leaning against the pillows, she's wrapped in the extra blanket but sitting Indian style — she commands, "Ask away."

"I … Whatever you want—"

"No, ask," she says, finally explaining, "I don't know where to start so it would — help — if you ask."

"Alright," he says carefully. "Are you — are you ok?"

"Yeah," she says immediately. "Of course I am. I — it was a shock, to see him." She gnaws on her lip. "I always — you know when you go through a breakup, and you're the breakupee, and you just have these … revenge fantasies? Where you imagine saying the perfect thing and putting them exactly in their place and making them feel how humiliated they made you feel? Only you can't get that in real life, you can barely get an approximation." He nods, and she continues. "So for years, I had these … imaginings, of how running into him again might go. And that was … not it."

"Ok," he says. "So what was different?"

"You know, you might want to consider a career in journalism one day," she jokes. "It would suit you."

"I'll take it under advisement," he says, and otherwise waits for her to continue. After a beat she keeps going.

"I don't know. At first I imagined I would be better dressed, for one. Probably wearing heels. And I thought … that I would tell him that he's a grade-A asshole. And that I would thank him, but in that ah-ha-ha petty way, because my life … everything … is so much better now. Job, friends, you … it's all so much better. So I would tell him what an asshole he was, then make him feel like he lost the best thing that ever came his way, and then make him feel like he's really just the scum of the earth."

"Well, for what it's worth, I do think he lost the best thing that came his way," he says. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't marry him."

"That's pretty selfish," she points out, because the jerk did break her heart along the way.

"I know. But you're being honest so I thought I would ... repay you with honesty. It's a thin, thin line between what he was doing and how I acted when I was dating Maggie—" she takes in a breath, because while she knew that he had slept with other women in the haziest periods of that relationship, she wasn't expecting him to draw a connection here — "and so I recognize that it's incredibly hurtful. And I ... wanted to say that I know that. And I'm incredibly sorry he put you through that. Selfishly glad you're not married to him but also very, very sorry."

She rearranges those interlocking, analogous pieces of their current relationship and their past relationships. "It's actually a lot different than what was going on with you and Maggie, for the record," she says.

"If you say so," he says.

"It is so," she says. "You two weren't engaged; you were on breaks."

"He treated you like shit. I treated Maggie like shit. And you know that. I just ... wanted that acknowledged."

"Acknowledged and differentiated. I don't think the two of you are the same at all, you know that, right?" she asks, because now she's wondering. "You … were under a lot of stress when you were with Maggie. You were kind-of-seeing someone and trying to keep it low-commitment, but that didn't work the way it normally did because you saw her every day and she's Maggie and she's all earnest and oblivious and charming and quirky. And then suddenly you were promoted to Will's EP and under a ton of stress, and then moved to Elliot's, and you always had an incredibly difficult mandate and Charlie didn't like you much because he thought you were too much of Reese's guy. There was a lot. So you tried to do the right thing by Maggie and ended up doing the wrong thing. You weren't malicious. You kept trying to fix your fuckups, and then fix the fuckups your fixes caused."

"The difference is one of shades and not color," he says. "You know you're rationalizing, right?"

"Contextualizing. It's true. I trust you," she says firmly. She is undeniably right. "I've known you for four years, the good and the bad, and I trust you. Because I know you. I know that you know when you're being hurtful, and you don't like it, and you try and change it. For god's sake you moved in with Maggie to fix an unhealthy relationship. He was intentionally hurtful, he doesn't try to be better, Don, and that's ... that's all the difference."

He's quiet. "Thank you," he says. "Anyways."

She smiles. "When I pictured running into him, I also thought I would warn whoever he was dating," she shrugs. "And clearly that didn't happen."

"Ok, and then what did you imagine after you imagined that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said, 'at first.' At first you thought you would do that. It implies something changed. So what did you imagine next?"

She pauses. "I don't know. And then I think I thought it would be years later, and I would, I don't know, bump into him when I was rushing out of a super-important meeting, or had just been in the news for something or … even something ordinary. Like, running to the grocery store with a kid, or something. And I could just be so fucking magnanimous, and tell him how genuinely I hoped things had worked out for him, though I secretly knew that I had won. And I wanted to be able to mean it, and not care. Like, to have just moved on so far that I was that graceful that it could actually all be in the past."

"Alright. So I'm guessing you didn't quite feel that?"

Sheshakes her head. "No. I don't think I could feel that for another five or ten years, honestly."

"So how are you feeling now?"

She takes a sip of her tea before setting down the mug. "It … caught me off guard. I … You know I … fuck. You know I love you right?" She'd said the words once, on accident, demanded that he allow her to take it back, hadn't brought it up again. They don't quite capture everything she feels about him — like I like waking up next to you becauseI sleep better next to you and That fucking thing you do with your tongue is amazing and I trust you and You are the person whose opinion matters most to me and I have faith in you and You make me feel confident and I like making you laugh and You have great and interesting taste in music and When I'm with you I feel the most like myself and Thank you for always finding my lost keys and You're the producer who I think has the best news sense and I believe in you — but it's the best shorthand for all those things. She's felt this way for a while. "I do. Fuck. You … That's not to put any pressure on you —"

"No, for what it's worth, I love you too," he says, cutting her off almost off-handedly.

"Oh," she says, because she's not expecting that. "Thank you."

He laughs. "I tell you I love you and you fucking say thank you?" he doesn't sound mad though; in fact, he looks almost … enthralled.

"Shut up," she says, nudging him with her toe. "I'm just … That's a preface, for what I'm about to say. I love you, I do. I love you … differently than I ever loved him. Possibly more, but it's … different, so I can't really quantify it, since it's an imperfect comparison. Anyways," she sighs, as he continues to chuckle, "I wanted to … not care as much, when I saw him again. But I … still cared. And I wasn't … I wasn't able to be magnanimous, or kick-ass. I still … I still cared. More than I wanted to. A lot more than I wanted to, actually."

He's quiet for a minute, then finally says, "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I should be sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Because I just told you I loved you, and followed it up with, I still cared way too much about what my dirtbag ex-fiance thought about me? Just a guess, though, I could be wrong." She usually is about these things.

But Don doesn't think so, and he considers her words carefully. "I … think that's completely normal," he says. "He treated you like shit, you wanted to prove him wrong. And he caught you off-guard. I think all of those things are normal."

"I don't … I don't have any feelings for him. Or anyone. Well, besides you."

"I know you don't," he says. "For the record, I have no other feelings for anyone else, either."

"Good," she smiles, finally relaxing enough to abandon the blanket and curl into his side. "So … we're good?"

"Of course we are. Can we go back to the diner for lobster mac at some point in the future though?"

"Absolutely," she smiles.

"One thing I didn't get, though," he says, propping himself onto his elbow. "The new girlfriend … or whatever she was … She worked at Goldman when you broke up. How did she not know the reason?"

She's quiet for a second. "It's a big company?"

"But she knew the woman he … was cheating on you with? And didn't know?" She bites her lip. "Oh, my god. Did you … Did you not say anything?" At her guilty look, he goes, "Seriously? How did you not … let people know what a jackass he was?"

"It was four years ago!" she says. "I wasn't … I wasn't … super-assertive." It was true. Up until that point in her life, she had operated under the principle that if she studied more and knew more and understood more, merit would bear out. It was a security-blanket mentality, she knows now.

"So you just let him get away with it?"

"I didn't want to tell anyone!" she says. "I didn't know what to say. And I had just … caught him cheating, four days before the wedding, and I was already going to get tons of pity for calling everything off, and I had to make these terrible phone calls and talk to all these caterers that I just … I couldn't tell people why. These days? Yes. In a heartbeat. But … this was pre-ACN. Pre-Will. Pre-Charlie. Pre-you. I wasn't the best at standing up for myself. Besides, most of them were his friends anyways, so I just … quit. And didn't look back."

He looks at her then, not with pity but with compassion, and kisses her. "I'm really sorry, in a non-dickish, non-misogynistic way, that you went through all of that," he says honestly.

"I know," she says. "And you know what? I dated, I almost married, a total bad guy. That's how I knew you weren't, ok? That's how."

The next day, when Don's in his second rundown, right after she's finished her four o'clock, she gives Topher a call. It's a mostly impulsive choice. He's surprised to hear from her, but readily accepts when she suggests coffee at Bouchon in half an hour. She walks slowly, working out what the hell she could possibly have to say to him.

She's waiting for him, methodically turning an oversized raspberry macaron in a pile of crumbs, when he walks in. She waves him over, slightly unenthusiastically. "Hi," she smiles. "Thanks for meeting me."

"No problem," he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "What's, uh, what's up?"

"Do you want to order anything?" she asks, pointing to the line, and he shakes his head. "Alright then. You can sit down, you know."

He takes a seat nervously. "I was surprised that you called."

"I was surprised to run into you at the diner yesterday," she says frankly.

"Amy — she lives around the corner," he admits.

"It's a good neighborhood — a little far from work, but we like it," she smiles.

"So … you and …"

"Don. His name is Don."

"Right. You're serious?"

"We are," she says, then pushes away the half-eaten macaron. "Anyways. I didn't come here to make nice. Or to threaten to tell Amy, or something, so you don't need to make that face. I can see you were concerned about that, but I'm not going to blackmail your new relationship. Besides, I'm sure you'll fuck it up on your own anyways, though I can hope you have a smidge more respect for her than you ever did for me."

"Hey I really am sorry, like I said when we —"

"And like I said when we broke up, I still think you were mostly sorry you got caught, though if you have changed — which I doubt — I am genuinely happy for you. I still want nothing to do with you, but given that otherwise you're just ruining more people's lives, I would be happy for the world — and you, for karma — if you weren't such a jerk."

"Ok …." he says, a little lost.

She redirects. She's rambling and on tangents that she didn't expect to traverse. She had a mission, when she called him. "Honestly, when I first called you, I was going to tell you everything I didn't tell you when I found you fucking Delaney Yancy in our bed. And then I was going to find a way to tell Amy. I've gotten better at speaking up for myself, and I wanted you to know that. Then I decided, right now actually, that all that sounded a little too much like a country-western song."

"I actually knew that, you know," he interrupts.

"You knew what?"

"That you had gotten better at speaking up for yourself. I do watch your show. Not all the time. Sometimes."

She sits back, a small smile on her face. "Oh yeah? What'd you think?"

"You're not bad, Sabbith."

"Most viewers and commentators think I'm actually pretty good," she says. "So why'd you not say that?"

"I … don't know."

"Let me hazard a guess: You didn't want to give me that one thing, years later? You didn't want to acknowledge at all that I'd found something new and am actually doing really well for myself. You were rude, last night. 'Banking,' and 'real economics,'" she clucks. "That was rude."

"I'm … sorry?"

"Don't be," she says. "I get it. Why do you think you're here now?"

"I actually still don't know," he says.

"Right," she says, finally landing on what she wants to say. "I was going to say all the things I didn't say. But that's the past, isn't it?" She looks at him, and where she once felt anger, she now just feels … nothing. So she figures out what that emotion is. "No. I just want to say … I forgive you."

"You … forgive me?"

"Yes. For cheating on me. I actually, genuinely do." It's kind of news to her, too. "You were a terrible boyfriend. The worst I've ever had, actually. But … I'm really happy now. And I'm really good at what I do. And just … in the last two minutes, you've made me realize all of that. I'm not going to thank you, but I forgive you," she stares at him. "I've carried that for almost four years. And I think I needed to say that more for me than you needed to hear that, but there you go."

"I'm not … I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."

"Of course you aren't," she smiles tightly. "Anyways. I need to get back to the studio. I hope … I hope you have a good life, Toph. A genuinely good one. Not one filled with money, or things, or vacations in crazy locations but … a good life. I do."

"You … you too, Sloan," he says, still looking stunned.

She hugs him, because it's the last time she'll ever see him, and he's a significant part of her past. Then she walks out, with a small smiles on her face. Her phone beeps, and she turns it over to see a text message from Don.

Sloan Sabbith does run into Topher once more in her life, on a Saturday far, far in the future (two weeks after she wins her second Peabody). She's in the grocery store, buying last-minute snacks for the soccer team because her genius husband forgot to tell her that Coach Mike had asked them to bring extra juice boxes. She's got one daughter by the hand, the second is ten feet ahead twirling in the aisle, and her son is about to have a meltdown since he's going to be late for his game. Topher is standing alone, perusing Gristedes' wine selection. She checks out his left hand — there's a wedding ring there. Her oblivious twirling daughter twirls into him, and he looks up. Their eyes connect, and she smiles. "Hey, Topher," she says. "How's it going?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this piece has my second-favorite line in the whole piece: "I tell you I love you and you fucking say thank you?" he doesn't sound mad though; in fact, he looks almost … enthralled." I think that sums them, and the piece, up so nicely. (I'll get to my favorite sentence later).
> 
> I thought this piece was important, given their histories — Sloan was cheated on; Don treated Maggie like shit — for them moving forward. They're both trying to overcome their pasts. At the same time, it offered a good opportunity to expand on Sloan's 'nice guy' theory. They needed to have this talk, and they needed to bump into the ex.
> 
> I tried to highlight, in every part of the interaction, how different they were than her previous relationship and his previous relationship with Maggie. There's a lot of trust and learned confidence in the way he knows to let her take the lead here. He lets her get her rocks off, then works her through the breakup. Sloan's not great with nuance (though I think her problems with social interaction are purposefully greatly exaggerated by her since most people let her get away with more with it), and she assumes that what she wants and needs for closure is revenge. And it turns out that's the last thing she needs — she needs to look at him and feel no ill will. It's not what she expected, but (to quote Diane, from 'Cheers') the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. And she needs to get to indifference toward him. She realizes that's what she has by the time she's at the bakery.
> 
> But I think it's also important for Don to know — and believe — that here, he's not the bad guy. Sloan needs to articulate, convincingly, the differences so he can move forward. And there are so many differences! He just doesn't believe them, I don't think, until now. So he doesn't necessarily think this is something that can last long-term, much as he likes her and wants to meet her mother and everything. He still thinks he can fuck this up. He still thinks she has bad taste and is only attracted to the bad guys, which damns him as much as it means he gets to be with her. So I think this is important for him to know, once and for all, that he's not a 'total bad guy.'
> 
> I went back and forth on including the tag. It was mostly a tease to the second piece that I'm still working through, Thicker Than Forget. But I also wanted felt leaving the diner was a bit unfinished. I thought this was a nice kicker — even if she didn't need to have that moment where she runs into Topher and gets to be super-magnanimous, she still gets to have that moment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to define a first date.

Hey y'all - thanks for the continued wonderful response here. I thought we'd take it way, way back this time. I hope you enjoy. As always, would love to hear your feedback.

December

"So the ACN holiday party is Friday," Don says casually, like he's remarking on the weather or debating Vietnamese vs. pizza. It's a Saturday morning, and if you had asked Sloan Friday morning if she had intended to spend the following day in Don's bed — or, even more broadly, with Don — she would not have known the answer. And she probably would have been pretty indecisive. But now that she's here, and she can see the branches encased in ice outside, and Don is being a responsive, pleasurable furnace, there is nowhere else she'd rather be.

"I know, I saw the email from Charlie. And the one from Mac. And the one from Elliot," she says, adjusting herself to face him. There are multiple ACN parties during the holiday season — each show does something for its staff; Mrs. Lansing hosts a senior-staff-only sit-down black-tie dinner at her apartment, which is basically located on top of the world; and there's Charlie's fancy-dress office blowout on New Year's, which is only attended by the youngest staff, those dating co-workers, or those with nowhere else to go. But this one is the middlebrow division-wide party, the one everyone is mandated to attend and the one where everyone always ends up a little too drunk on too-cheap wine, and hungry despite eating too many crudites. It was a generally pretty miserable experience.

"Mmm, the best night of the year," she jokes, burrowing deep into his covers. It's surprising, how amazing his linens are. It's not something you would immediately associate with him, but they're awesome. She could stay here all day.

"It's not that bad," he defends. He's close to her but not quite touching, as if he's a little unsure what the exact boundaries are. She tangles her legs with his, just to make a point.

"Last year, Martin hit on me. Full stop. Said that he knew I probably thought he was too young, but offered to 'rock my world,'," she laughs. "He then threw up in a urinal. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember. For his sake.'

"So you're going this year?"

"Of course. It's mandatory."

"Yeah but not really."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Really? Tell me more."

"There's not much more to tell. If you don't go, what do you think will happen?"

"Mocking and misery," she suggests.

"Right. Well there is that."

"I'm not saying it's a night at the Roxbury, but why not go? It's free booze and people you generally like."

"I'm not saying I don't want to go, I …"

Oh. Right.

The two of them have been doing this for just over two weeks. She can use just one hand to count the number of times they've spent the night together. While she is very fond of him and does not plan on entangling legs with anyone else in the near future and likes this and has been having fun, they haven't told anyone from work, due to some mutual unspoken understanding. (Well, Will might have picked up on it because he's scary perceptive), and they haven't even really had a conversation about, well, anything. She supposes they could just be sleeping together, but it feels more serious than that, possibly because they have known each other for so long. But it also feels painfully new and delicate — even raw.

So she does the sensible thing. She gets up. Swinging out of bed, she says, "Come on. We need food; specifically, French toast. Let's go get brunch." She's got jeans from last night and a plain white tank top from her gym bag, but the sweater she was wearing is now wrinkly, so she swipes one of his seventy-three flannel shirts. He laughs as she buttons it halfway, tucks it in front and rolls up the sleeves. It's too big to be exactly stylish, but it does the trick. And actually, she kind of likes it. Her hair gets caught up in the collar, and he pulls it out, laughing.

She pulls on her coat and boots, because even though it's probably in the mid-thirties she will still be freezing. She's not sure if they're hand-holders, or even at the stage where that's acceptable, so she walks with her hands firmly in her parka's pockets the entire time. They head around the corner from his place to Market Diner, which is only half-full since most of its clientele is the late-night post-college crowd. But they've got cheap challah French toast, for her, and eggs Benedict, for him, so they're set.

As he settles in next to her, she realizes that it's their first meal, in public, together, in this context. They've eaten way too many midnight meals, and oh-shit-it's-5-pm-where-was-lunch meals, and have gone out together and separately as friends … but they're not friends anymore. Well, they are, and they're more. And before she can stop herself, she says this observation out loud after the waitress has taken their coffee orders.

He looks startled. "No way this is our first date," he says. "It's in a diner."

"So this isn't a date?" she challenges archly.

"No, this is a date," he corrects quickly, clearly worried she might get offended, or think they're not there as … to-be-determined, but qualitative, thing. "I mean … Order of things a little mixed up. But. Wait. Is this a date?"

She's now confused. "How are you defining date?"

"Well, there are multiple contexts. Generally I would say the criteria is doing something of mutual interest with someone you're interested in … you know, as more-than-a-friend. But 'first date' implies awkward, implies getting-to-know-you, and I did not feel awkward until you said it was a first date and now I don't even know."

"Well, I think it meets your first criterion, and mathematically, it is the first time that we have done something of mutual interest with each other after clearly indicating that we are interested in each other."

"Well, no, because the other criterion for a first date is that the guy is trying to impress the girl. And I would definitely, you know, have put thought into that aspect, if this was a first date. So it meets neither criteria for a first date."

"It meets the chronological definition as the first time. Something has to be the first date. Looks like this is it, pal."

"Well, sure, if you're defining mutual interest as, you know, since we started," he lowers his voice to a whisper and darts his eyes around, which makes her laugh, "sleeping together. But I wouldn't necessarily draw the line there."

"Well, if you start counting 'mutually interested in each other' as a few months back, that means the tequila shots and tuna jerky we had in October at Hang Chew's could count. And if you're not interested in me right now and the first date is sometime in the future, I'm kind of offended. To be honest."

"Ok, a, it's been more than 'a few months back,' so —"

"It has?" she smiles, because that is validating.

He flails about for words a bit. "I mean, there were lines. But yeah, you're you, Sloan, there was never exactly a time when I would say I was uninterested."

She's struck. "We really need to work on our communication then."

"Probably. For the record, I like you. A lot."

She leans forward and kisses him. Their first public kiss (well, depending on your definition of public, since they definitely have made out in his office way, way late at night.) "I like you a lot, too," she smiles. "Enough that I am willing to give you a bye on the this-being-the-first-date thing."

"So I get a do-over?" he grins.

"Yup. Tonight. Make it count, Keefer."

After brunch, he grabs her hand as they walk back. The laze around his apartment for a while (he watches a basketball game that he recorded, which makes absolutely no sense, as she grades), but he kicks her out around 2 and tells her to go home and get ready.

"But what should I wear?" she teases as they say good-bye in his doorway.

He thinks for a second. "Something you like," he finally says, before leaning forward and kissing her. "Go. I'll pick you up at seven."

It's sweet, but supremely unhelpful, advice, she thinks as she stares at her closet four hours later. She can't really tell what direction Don will take their first date in - will it be old-school and formal, some nice restaurant with a wine list both of them will pretend to understand? Or will it be more casual, like ice-skating in Central Park. Should she wear heels? He seemed intent that a first date was impressive.

She settles on a simple black dress that will work in most contexts. It's comfortable enough for walking, and has a peekaboo back, with a vertical slit from her waist to a single top button at the base of her neck. It's a little shorter than what she would wear to work. She decides on her favorite black slingbacks, which are good walking heels that also do amazing things for her legs, though she seriously hopes there will be no outside component to the date. It's not a fancy outfit, but she really hopes that Don won't freak out and create some stiff, fraught-with-expectations ordeal.

She needn't have worried. When Don knocks on her door (he insisted on coming up), he's not wearing a suit (if he had, she would have made him wait while she went to change), though he did iron his clothing, and he's holding a plant. "I didn't trust you to keep flowers alive for more than five hours, but that an impressive first date would have a floral component," he says. "The guy at the florist assures me that in the apocalypse, only cockroaches and this plant will survive."

"So it might last a week here, is what you're saying?"

"Exactly," he smiles.

"Well, thank you," she smiles. "So. Where are we going?"

"'inoteca," he says, holding up her coat for her.

She pauses. "Okay, not saying that that doesn't sound amazing, but I have been there and they don't take reservations and last time I went there with my friend Carrie we waited like, three hours for a table, and I'm just saying, that I kind of turn into the Hulk when I get really hungry —"

"Relax. I have seen you hungry, and will never forget it, so I would never intentionally put you in a situation where you'd have to wait three hours for food."

Her mouth is open, a little bit. "So you're taking me, on an impressive first date, to a place with a two-hour wait for a table on a Saturday night?"

"Hell no," he says, "I know a guy." With that, he tilts his head toward the door and begins to lead her out.

"You know a guy? You also know that you actually used the words, 'I know a guy,' right? It kind of sounded like you're in the Mafia."

"Well, Keefer is actually a shortened form of Keeferano." He rolls the last word, like a bad character actor might do.

"Seriously?"

"What? No."

"Who is this guy? And how do you know him?" she teases as they step into her elevator. This time, she takes his hand.

"He's a friend of mine from college. He did like, New York stuff right after college—"

"Wall Street?"

"Real estate, I think, technically. But after about eight years he freaked out, quit, started bartending, made a lot of friends, and then started investing in restaurants and overseeing their bars and liquor. This is one of the restaurants he's involved in."

"Are there any other guys you know?"

He shrugs. "My buddy Nick is the facilities manager at Madison Square Garden. He can get you tickets to any Knicks game."

"Ooooh, what about the Taylor Swift concert?"

"I mean, I have no idea who you would go with, but sure. He could do that."

"What about the Biebz?" she teases.

"Please stop. Please." She laughs.

Sure enough, when they get to 'inoteca, he just talks to the maitre d' and she leads them to a quieter table, away from the bar and by a window. She adores the mozzarella in carrozza, and feels zero shame in immediately starting them off with two orders. Don actually knows more about wine than she does, and picks out a very nice cabernet. His friend, Jonah, stops by to say hi, but otherwise they're left alone. Whatever potential awkwardness she was anticipating is nonexistent. It's the two of them, eating food, wearing nice clothes, and talking. And laughing. He makes her laugh. It's a relief, to know that they can work as friends and they can work in bed (they can really work in bed), and they can work as a couple on a date on Saturday night. She offers him bites from her fork; he wipes sauce off the corner of her lip with his thumb. It's nice. Afterwards they head to an underground, speakeasy-style bar, with gin-heavy old-school cocktails and fantastic live jazz. They huddle in a corner, and sometimes make out, but mostly they just talk.

They head back to her place, which is a little weird, since they haven't really spent consecutive nights together. But as he presses her against the back of the elevator and kisses her neck, he asks, throatily, "So how was this for a first date?"

"Impressive," she murmurs back. "And you know what the best part is?" she tugs him up to look at her by the scruff at the nape of his neck. "Since it's not actually the first date, I don't feel bad at all sleeping with you."

He laughs, nuzzling his nose into her neck. "Have I mentioned I fucking love how smart you are?"

The next morning, as he's doing the New York Times' crossword puzzle at her island in his boxers (which is bizarrely normal and weird at the same time) she finally says, "So, the party on Friday."

"What about it?"

"I … I like this," she starts, signalling between them as she sits on the second stool.

He smiles genuinely. "I like this too."

"I'm not sure what it is, but I'd like to — actually figure it out. If … If you wanted to." She feels like she's back in eighth grade, trying to negotiate a relationship with Chet, her middle-school crush who sent the worst mixed messages. The conversation never got easier.

He practically chuckles in relief. "I would … like that."

"Ok," she exhales. "But I think that … takes time. And I'm not a … If I ever had a … relationship that played out in public, in the newsroom every day, the way that Will and Mac's does? I'd be mortified."

"You know they're not technically a 'relationship' right?" he asks.

"So just think how unbearable they would be if they were sleeping together," she points out. "They already fight on air. Everything they do is on display, the good stuff, the not-good stuff. I couldn't do that." She's not sure if she's inadvertently drawing comparisons to his relationship with Maggie so she shifts away from the topic. "I just … need some space I guess. I think we need some space from … all of them. I don't want it to be a secret, I just want it to be — I'm happy, I'm not, I don't know, ashamed —"

"You just want it to be low-key at work?" he asks. "Skip the kissing under the mistletoe on Friday?"

"Yes," she says emphatically, relieved to be off the linguistic roller coaster she'd accidentally jumped on. "Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah, I absolutely agree," he says.

"You do?"

"Yes," she's a little speechless, so he elaborates. "We work together. You're on my show sometimes, and in those cases I have to be your producer. And even outside of that, there's a pretty good chance we're gonna argue about … something. We just will. At some point. And you have career goals and honestly, so do I, that a … a this … could complicate. There's those to consider. So it's … I'm not taking any of those things lightly. So I'd … like to figure those things out."

She honestly hadn't thought of the two of them in terms of her career — she suddenly realizes people could think she was sleeping her way up the ladder, or something — and she's not sure what that says about her. "I feel like I have to tell Mac though. And, actually, Will."

"We said low-key, not secret," he says. "I … kinda feel like it will come up with Elliot."

"I just feel like Mac would get mad, and yell otherwise," she explains. "And you should totally tell Elliot; he's your work husband."

"Please never use that term again," he smirks, kissing her lightly. "Anyways. I'm supposed to meet a friend for an hour of tennis in well, an hour, so … I should probably head out," he sighs. "What are you doing later tonight?"

"Dinner with my friend Erin, then I have a 5:45 makeup call for a morning shoot." He makes a face and she laughs. "Do you want to escape for lunch tomorrow?"

He kisses her, sliding his hands around her waist. "Sounds good."

She's not sure how to broach the subject with either Will or Mac, so it comes out spontaneously and fairly predictably: While she's at Hang Chew's with Mac waiting for Don to finish Elliot's show and listening to Kenzie bitch about Will and she's trying to get a word in, she finally yells, "Kenzie!"

"I'm just saying, he's the most pigheaded—"

"—I think I'm dating Don—"

"— man possibly who has ever — whatthefuck did you just say?"

"I think I'm dating Don?"

"What do you mean?"

"I … just think I am."

"Sloan, he knows you think you're dating him, right? Because it kind of sounds like he doesn't know."

"No, he knows," she smiles. "It started about … three weeks ago. We're keeping it … quiet for a bit though."

"Thank god! I knew it was going to happen!"

She tells Will at the ACN holiday party, where she and Don are there not-together but not-not-together. "You know how we've got the little sister-big brother dynamic going on?" she asks as she and Will hide in his office. The party is as predictably terrible as she expected.

"I didn't know that."

"Well, we do. You're the all-knowing gruff-but-teddy-bearish older brother, and I'm the wisecracking, precociously intelligent younger sister. And you know in the old movies, the big brother always kicks the ass of the little sister's boyfriend?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"What?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"Yes, but how did you know that?" Kenzie had been sworn to secrecy.

"Because I have eyes, Sloan," he says. "Would you like me to kick Don's ass?"

"No, I would actually like you to not kick his ass."

"Good. I didn't want to kick his ass either."

"He's a good guy."

"I know, Sloan," he studies her. "Are you happy?"

"I … Yeah," she smiles. "Yeah."

"Good," he says, nodding to the party. Kenzie is gesticulating, clearly trying to find them. "We should get back out there. MacKenzie is going to go all … Mac very shortly."

"Sounds good," she says.

"I will kick his ass, you know. If you need me to."

"I think I can handle it, but thanks, bro."

She feels strangely light as she grabs a beer and sidles up to Don, who was talking to Tess, who peels off fairly quickly. "So I talked to Will," she says casually. "He offered to kick your ass for me."

He laughs and steps toward her, then steps back. She raises an eyebrow. "I really wanted to kiss you just then."

"Ten more minutes and let's get out of here?"

"So sold," he breathes.

They spend four of the next seven nights together and the others texting and talking. On Friday he takes her out on their second real date, this time to dinner and a play she'd mentioned wanting to see three weeks earlier. He surprises her next by taking her to a hotel afterwards, since it's Christmas, and all. They exchange gifts that night by the room's fireplace, since she has a flight to San Francisco the next morning and he's driving down to his mom's in Philadelphia. She'd gotten him a camera, had asked the tech guys for advice on brands. He's enthralled by it, immediately starts snapping photos of her as she unwraps her gift, a simple, chic gold bar necklace. She examines the photo in the viewfinder a second later — she's surprised by how happy she looks, and kisses him deeply.

She's got a 8 a.m. flight out of LaGuardia the next morning, and has packed exactly nothing, since she assumed they were going back to her place. The alarm goes off at 5 a.m. and she groans, throwing her hand over her eyes. Don starts to shuffle awake and she presses him back. "You should get sleep. I'll see you on Wednesday when I'm back, alright?"

"Nope, I'm coming with you to your apartment. Then I'm coming back and sleeping," he says, strangely coherent despite having slept for four hours.

She drifts off twice in the cab, and Don has to keep prodding her to stay awake as she throws clothes into her suitcase. Finally, though, it's 6:30 and she has to get in the cab or she'll miss her flight. He walks her down the street, hails the cab, keeps her upright as they wait. "I love you," she says gratefully as he begins to shuffle her into the car.

Her words jolt her awake though. "Wait," she says. "I take that back."

"You take it back?" he says, amused but with slightly terrified eyes.

"Yes. It slipped out. I am tired, and you are warm, and wonderful, and thank you, and it slipped out. So I take it back."

"They're words. You can't unsay them," she can't tell if he's more amused than terrified, but at least he's not angry.

"I gave you the first date thing," she points out. "Please?"

He smiles. "Fine. Have a safe flight. Text me when you take off, alright?"

She kisses him as the cabbie honks. "Drive safely. I'll see you Wednesday, alright?"

She's still stunned by what she said as the taxi trundles toward the airport and she watches his shape get smaller in the rearview. It's early in the morning, and she's beyond massively tired, but as she touches the necklace, she wonders if there was more truth than not to her words.


	9. Yes I Find the Strength to Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Happy October :) This one came fairly quickly, though it was supposed to be a Sloan piece initially but ended up needing to be a Don piece because of one of the conversations. But the next meet-the-family oneshot will be from her POV, I promise. I think a lot of Don's explanations might be a little evolved (they're what I'm sure he's thinking, I'm just doubtful if he could articulate them), but let me know. They're definitely ahead of the show, due to the simple fact that they're dating.
> 
> As a note, I've finally decided to formalize these - I plan on having twenty-four, so we're a third of the way through (I need to pick up the updating pace, I know. Reviews help me write faster). But the rest are also sort-of planned out, and I'm pretty excited.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me, except for the little Woody Allen in-joke. Props to those who figure it out :)

February

"Oh, come on," Don yells at the TV. "That was a disgrace!"

"This game aired three nights ago and you know how it ends; why is this so painful to watch?" Sloan asks from the end of the sofa, where she's tucked up into a ball editing someone's economics journal article.

"Because it's like being stabbed in the heart over and over again."

"That sounds pretty close to the definition of insanity."

"Being a sports fan is an exercise in futility."

"Not if you root for the Giants," she sing-songs. Which is not exactly true, and he's about to point that out, when her phone beeps. "Hey Mom," she says, picking it up and jumping up to move into the kitchen. He turns the volume down anyways. "No we're just watching a basketball game that the Sixers lost three days ago. … Yeah, I don't know either." Her voice drifts off as she goes deeper into the apartment, and he turns the volume back up. "Wait, that's this week?" she says, coming back into the living room and handing him a beer, then setting a cold soda in front of her crap. He turns the volume down again. "No, I guess I forgot," she turns and heads for the other room, and he flips the volume back up and cringes. God damn Philadelphia loyalty. "No work's going well, it's busy but it's going really well. I need to talk to dad about projections for fiscal drag." And she's back in. He lowers the volume. But nope. At least she's speaking English — half the time she and her family go on and on in Japanese. She just picks up her crap, mouths 'sorry' and moves toward the other room. Alright then. "Great. Love you too. We'll see you on Thursday, alright? Tell Dad I love him. Alright? Bye," she throws the phone down. "So my parents are in town this weekend."

His eyes widen. "Your dad's UN testimony?"

"Yes. Wait. How did you know that?"

"Your mom mentioned it when we went out to dinner last month. How did you not know that?"

"I did know that; I just, I forgot that I knew that."

"And you mock me for forgetting when Elliot's out."

"That's your job, this is personal."

"Sloan."

"Right. Well, they're flying in on Wednesday night and visiting friends on Thursday. They want to come to the studio that night too, since my dad has never been and my mom liked watching the show. Then Friday Dad is testifying, and Mom has some meetings, and they're going out to dinner with a few friends since they know I have work. But Saturday … they want to do dinner," she worries her bottom lip.

"With both of us?"

"Yes. If you're up to it. But I figured, since you met my mom … My mom thinks you're funny."

"Why do I feel like I'm being set up for failure?"

"Come on. You got along with my mother! She liked you!"

"Yeah, but Sloan, this is your dad."

"So?" she asks, utterly confused.

So? It's Sloan's dad. While Sloan and her mom are close — they seem to talk on the phone at least once every few days, and he's even spent a good three minutes on the phone with Nami — her dad is her idol. They speak on the phone rarely, but when they do it's for hours, and all in Japanese. He knows they Skype each other from her office late at night, when she's waiting for Right Now to wrap up. They email each other economics articles, and she has him review her lesson slides. He texts her photos of ties he's thinking of wearing to trustees' meetings or speaking engagements. Minus the three thousand miles between them, they're basically inseparable.

And, you know, he's a dad. Don still only views children as a very hypothetical thing far in the future, but he still thinks he gets the dad thing. He would punch someone sleeping with his daughter. He's also had this conversation with Charlie, and with Will, and those were terrifying. So he can't imagine what the actual dad will be like.

"So … It's a big deal," he explains lamely.

"Believe me, my mom is much scarier than my dad," she says, flopping down next to him. "There is one more thing, though. And you don't have to do it. You can say no, and I'll tell my mom that I didn't even ask, that I didn't want to ask. For the record. You are under no obligation and for the record, I think it's inappropriate —"

"Sloan. Breathe. What … what are you asking me?"

She looks genuinely hesitant to say what she's about to say. "There's this art exhibition-reception thing at the New York Library that he got tickets for, for 5 on Saturday, for him and my mom. But Mom thought that you might want to go with him, but you know? I think it's a terrible idea. Now that I'm saying it out loud. I'm going to call her, and I'm going to tell her that it's a bad idea, and I'm going to tell her that she's presumptuous, and that she's meddlesome —" she's really getting riled up.

"I'll go," he says, semi-surprising himself.

"You'll what?" she says.

He shrugs, feigning casual. He can do casual. "I'll go."

"No. You won't."

"What?"

"We've only been dating for three months. My mother is tiger-momming here. I'm putting my foot down."

"I just say I'll go and meet your dad, and you take it back?"  
"It's my dad. He's terrifying."

"You said he wasn't!"

"You're right, he's not; I lied."

"So I can go to this thing with him?"

"Do you want to go with him? You'll have to wear a jacket. On a Saturday!"

"OK, I was freaked out but in a good way about this, and now I'm getting freaked out in a bad way about this."

"OK."

"Do you want me to meet your dad?"

"Yes. No. Yes. I do. I just … don't."

"Don't what?" Because she is confusing.

"I don't want it to be a thing-thing."

"As opposed to a thing."

"OK, this is where your 50 additional IQ points leave me a little lost. Help?"

"I want you to go, and meet him, and have fun, or as much fun as you can have at a weird jazz concert-art exhibition in a library, and not get worked up about it."

"At this point, I don't think I'm the one getting worked up about it."

She tilts her head, as if to say not helpful. "I'm just saying, I want you to go, I do think you'll like him because he's great, and just, you know. Get to know him. But … I don't want this to be a 'thing.'"

"OK."

"OK?"

"I said OK like five minutes ago."

She bites her lip. "OK. I'll let my mom know."

"They're not … staying … at your place right? We don't need to …"

"Leave room for the Holy Ghost? No. They're staying at the Mandarin, they always stay at the Mandarin." Of course.

On Tuesday, after their second rundown, he follows Elliot into his office. "Hi, Don, what can I do for you?" Elliot sighs. "It's a little creepy, you know, when you follow me like that. You don't acknowledge you're doing it, don't mention …"

"I need advice, and I need to know that this request falls under the … producer-talent cone of silence. Journalistic privilege."

"Well, that depends on what you're about to tell me."

"Sloan's parents are coming into town. Her father, who, no big deal, won a Nobel Prize for some research he did in his spare time, wants me to go to a jazz concert-art exhibition thing…."

"You two have been dating for … two months? And you're meeting her dad?"

"Well more like … three months, which is a lot longer than two months. But, yeah. He has some tickets to this thing, and her mom wants us to go to that, and then we'll all go out to dinner together."

"And you said yes?"

"Yup."

"Are you nuts?"

"No?"

"Dude."

"So my question is, as I have never, you know, met the father of anyone that I've dated — what do I do?"

"You've made it to thirty-four without meeting the fathers of anyone you've dated and you decide the first one to meet should be the Nobel Prize-winning dean of Stanford's business school?"

"Is there a book to read?"

"You didn't meet Maggie's?"

"I said hi to them, once. Met two of her cousins. Once I accidentally picked up her phone and it was her mom. We talked."

"You two dated for almost two years, you never actually met her parents, and three months in and you're going to a jazz concert-photo what-the-fuck with Sloan's dad?"

"Are we going to help me or are we going to mock me?"

"Oh, we are going to mock."

Elliot's advice is, unsurprisingly, exceptionally unhelpful, so he decides to just wing it. He knows when they arrive on Wednesday — they text Sloan immediately — and spends all day Thursday jittery. It doesn't help that it's actually kind of an insane news day, the type that keeps him moving and shouting, with Syria and Somalia exploding and everyone on News Night losing their heads since Mac has the flu. Theoretically, Jim should be the one to lead her show, since he's her senior producer and all, but since the whole team is still mad at him for the defection, Don's taking over. He knows Sloan is meeting her parents for an early dinner before bringing them back, but he's so swamped that as he's rushing back from the edit bay to her office to say hello, he runs smack into them on their way to the control room.

"Don!" Sloan says, surprised. "Edit bay?"

"Yeah, a package for 10 fell apart," he says, shaking his head. "Hi. I'm sorry, Nami, it's so good to see you again."

"Hi, Don," Nami says, with a smile he still doesn't trust yet. "You look well. It's good to see you again. This is my husband, Thomas Sabbith."

"Call me Tom," he smiles. He's as tall as Nami is short, with an angular, WASPy build and a shock of grayish hair. He looks distinguished, which is unsurprising, but also a bit nerdy. He's wearing a navy suit, and Nami has on a pantsuit and a silk blouse that he suspects costs as much as his mortgage. He suddenly regrets his choice of shirt.

"Don Keefer," he says, holding out a hand that, thankfully, isn't shaking. "It's great to meet you. Sloan's told me some wonderful things about you."

"I've heard some, interesting, shall we say, stories about you as well," Tom says, his eyes sparkling.

"Dad," Sloan says, in a patient, warning tone.

"Right. So you're one of the producers, around here?"

"That's right — our 10 p.m. show, with Elliot Hirsch," he smiles.

"Those are some pretty late nights, not getting off until midnight."

"I get to start a little later and, outside of meetings, my days are pretty flexible," Don says. "It works out."

"It's the same as you starting your day at seven and then bringing stuff home at six, Dad," Sloan says. "Besides, it's not like I stop working at five p.m. either."

"Relax, Sloan, I'm just making conversation," Tom smiles. "Now, I'm assuming that means that right now you're pretty busy, and Sloan, don't you have to go to the people who do your face? We should get out of the way."

"I do need to go to makeup," Sloan laughs.

"And I do need to go — our 8 o'clock producer is out sick, so I'm covering for her today as well."

"Oh, we'll be in the control room together then," Nami smiles.

Fucking A.

"Yeah. It's always a great show."

"Mom, Dad, I'll take you to the control room now, but then I do need to get going," Sloan says.

Twenty minutes later, as his show is cobbled together and it's time for News Night, he heads into the control room. "Hey," he smiles, "I want to apologize in advance — with the two shows tonight it might get a little hectic in here. It's not … It's not how we — I planned it."

"Oh, no," Nami smiles. "We're just here to watch." She's so pleasant, and Don is again unnerved that she seems so nice when Sloan swears she's a tiger mother. "It's certainly exciting, to watch everyone be so productive."

"Right. Well, if you need anything — water, soda, anything — Tess is going to be your best bet. Tess —" he calls.

"Got it. You've got Elspeth on the line in Damascus, there's something wrong with the camera," she holds up the control room phone.

"Sorry, hand her over."

News Night itself actually goes fairly smoothly, thank God, because it would have been supremely embarrassing for it to go poorly. He makes a few quick saves — a dropped phone-in correspondent, a bad factcheck, an interviewee who brings out the worst in Will. But Sloan's segment goes well, thank God, and she's in the control room by 8:30 to distract her parents and generally keep them company.

"Do you guys want to stay back here? We can watch from my office," she asks.

"Oh no, I'm quite enjoying it from here," Nami says. "Don paces considerably less than I expected."

"No, his usual style of getting out nerves is talking and occasional yelling," Sloan says. It's true — producing amps him up.

"I can hear you," he says, thumb over the microphone. "Though that is true."

"He said that he paced, last time," Nami points out.

"He paces when the anchor isn't listening," Sloan says.

"How do you know that? The person least inclined to listen to me on air is you."

"If I'm going to listen to half of a flirty conversation, take me out of your fucking ear. I can manage on my own," Will says snippily, and he flips the switch for the next twenty seconds.

"That one doesn't listen much either," Sloan points to the monitor. "Though I am probably worse. I'm getting better, though."

"Who's in charge, the anchor or the executive producer?" Tom asks.

"The EP," he says as Sloan says, "the anchor." He stares at her, and she says, "Well, the EP, during the show, technically."

He flips his mic back on. "You're back in 10," he says to Will, "Joey, load the graphics for the D Block."

After the show, Tom says, "Well, that was fascinating."

"Why don't I take you to meet Will, then you guys can cab back to your hotel?" Sloan suggests.

"And I have to run to get stuff turned around for 10, but it was great to meet you," Don says, feeling incredibly guilty. But producing two shows in a night while being watched by your girlfriend's parents is not exactly a serene endeavor. "I'll see you both later."

"Great to meet you, Don," Tom says, shaking his hand.

"See you on Saturday," he smiles, "Nami. Good to see you as well."

"Wonderful to see you, Don. It was certainly enlightening to see you produce."

"I'm not sure what that means, but thank you," he admits with a smile, and she opens her arms for a hug. Sloan looks surprised but he accepts it.

After Elliot's show, he's scared shitless by Sloan waiting in his darkened office. "You have to stop doing this," he complains. "I'm beginning to think you like freaking me out."

"Your squeal is pretty endearing," she says, standing up. "You ready to head out?"

"Yeah. I figured you left already?"

"Nope. Put 'em in a cab. My mom really likes you." She stands, stretching. She's in yoga pants and a thin henley and he wants to be home now.

"Yeah. Should I be concerned?"

"I have no idea," she shrugs. "I'm trying not to think about it."

"I could just have won her over with my considerable charms. Back in the day, I had a reputation with the ladies."

"Yeah. No, Romeo," she kisses him lightly. "You ready for the exhibition?"

"Hell no," he laughs, grabbing his bag so they can head out.

But even so, on Saturday, wearing a suit jacket and nice pants and feeling like he desperately needs a shot, he heads to the public library.

"Don!" Tom calls, on the steps. "This way."

"Tom," he smiles. "Good to see you again. Thanks for inviting me."

"Are you a Man Ray fan?"

"I liked him in Midnight in Paris," he says. "But not familiar with the man himself, no."

Tom chucks. "Good pun. Not my favorite Woody Allen movie, but certainly better than Purple Rose of Cairo. I never liked that one."

"Match Point was pretty good."

"I always liked the actress who played the wife in that film," Tom agrees, as they head in. "So, how did you get into journalism?"

He laughs. "A bit of a long story. I was a business and poli-sci major, followed a girl to the newspaper offices, started writing a column about concerts while I was at NYU, ended up minoring in journalism."

"And you dropped the interest in business?"

He shrugs. "Decided to play to my strengths. I got a minor in it, in the end, and it's pretty useful, given where the media is."

"Ah," Tom says appraisingly, as they walk toward the bar. "Drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Don, my daughter has decided that after three months of dating, she likes you enough to send you to a jazz and art exhibition with me. I want to find out why. Have a drink. You'll need it."

"Gin and tonic," he tells the bartender.

"Good man," Tom says. "So you followed a girl into the newspaper offices. How did you end up at ACN?"

"Well the interest in journalism far outlasted the girl. I ended up doing a few internships, a fellowship, got a Master's at Columbia's J-school. Led to a job at Newsweek covering politics in DC for a few years, did the 2004 campaign and met a producer at ACN. He hired me on in DC and I came up to New York in 2006. I was a reporter for a few more months before becoming a producer."

"Ever wanted to be on air?"

"God, no. Wouldn't want to break the camera. I leave that to Sloan and Elliot and Will."

"So when did you meet Sloan?"

"A little after she started at ACN," he says, taking a quick sip of his drink.

"That was three years ago."

"Yup, in November. We got her a cake."

"And so you were friendly but distant colleagues that whole time?"

"No, we were friends," he says truthfully before flagging down the waiter. He'll need another. "Good work friends. Off and on." He decides that honesty is the only way he can possibly be impressive here and get this guy to like him.

"Off and on?"

"I … was dating someone off-and-on for a lot of that time and, in retrospect, it was not a great relationship. And Sloan has no tolerance for idiocy, so she kind of … made herself scarce during that relationship, and I was pretty preoccupied at work, since it was not going well at the time. But she was still a good friend. I trusted her. I … still trust her. I trust her more, now, obviously, but I've always trusted her."

"And you never thought about dating her then?"

"We were friends. It was an important friendship, to me. And …" he hesitates.

"And?"

"And, I … I saw the guys she dated. And I didn't like any of them, frankly. Not in a jealous way, just in an I-think-you-can-do-better way."

"So you're saying you're better?"

"No. I'm in fact trying to get to the opposite point. Look, I'm crazy about your daughter. I think she's brilliant, and she's funny, and she's the first person I want to tell about good news, or bad news, or what I had for dinner," he explains earnestly. "But a lot of the guys that I met, or I heard about, were just not great guys. I didn't really think she had great taste in men, to be honest. Topher? I've wanted to punch him for four years. And when we started working through us …. My thought was, if she likes me, and she liked also liked all of these guys, who treated her like crap and weren't good enough for her, well, why was I any different?"

"You know, I was really liking you — my wife likes you, my daughter really likes you, you seemed to be on your game at work, you only have one tattoo that I've seen and you like the right Woody Allen movies. But now I'm actually confused as to why you're here."

"Sorry," he smiles. "Anyways, what I'm saying, is that it made me take a good hard look at who I was, what I was doing, how I was treating people. And I wasn't a whole lot different from those guys, but I wanted to be. And I thought that made a difference. So I started …. trying to do a little better. And, quite frankly, Sloan told me I was full of shit and didn't get to make decisions for her."

"So are you good enough for my daughter?"

"No. But I know that. And I want to be, and I'm trying to be," he shrugs, "I know that I'm lucky to be with her."

Tom does seem to respect that. "When you say that you weren't good enough, what do you mean?"

"I'm … caustic, sometimes. And impatient. I'm pretty career-focused, and that has usually kept things from getting serious with anyone I've dated. You're actually the first dad I've met. And the last relationship … like I said, it didn't go too well. A lot of it was just bad timing and us not being a great match, but I was …. sometimes not the nicest. I think that influenced a lot of my thinking initially."

"You ever cheat?"

"No sir. Just … condescending. Which wouldn't be a problem with Sloan, since she would shut it down. Plus, she's like six times smarter than I."

"That ever bother you?"

"No, why would it? It's one of the things I like most about her."

"You just gave me twenty-six reasons to hate you, you know."

"Yeah, I really did."

"And you still want me to like the fact that you're dating my daughter."

"I mean, it certainly would make things easier, but I plan on dating her for as long as she wants to date me."

"Would you ever cheat on her?"

"God. No. Absolutely not." And he means it.

Tom shakes his head. "Between all my girls I've done the meet-the-boyfriend thing seven times — not counting any high-school dates — and I suspect I have a few more before I'm done with the youngest two. But I don't think I'll ever get one as … interesting as this one."

He squints. "I'm leaning toward taking that as a good thing, but feel free to correct me. I can be wrong about these things."

Tom laughs, then scrutinizes him back. "We'll call it a good thing. For now."

"You know, Sloan swore that her mom was going to be the tough critic, not you."

"On matters of broken curfews, I definitely would call myself the more reasonable parent. And when making economic forecasts at dinner, I was definitely the more engaged parent there, as well. Those were probably Sloan's initial criteria."

"Well, you definitely set the bar here."

"Oh, just wait until you ever see my wife disappointed. Now, what do you think is happening in this picture?"

Two hours and three gin and tonics later, they pile into a cab and head to the restaurant Sloan's reserved. Sloan and her mother are waiting, and Sloan looks a bit anxious but mostly curious. "How did it go," she whispers as he kisses her cheek. He pulls away, raises one eyebrow, and shrugs. Because he does not know.

But dinner goes nicely, and as they're saying their goodbyes — her parents have a 10 a.m. flight, so this is it — Tom says, "Looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe you two should come out to the Bay Area?"

"It'll be tough this year, with the election," Sloan says.

"Well, maybe next year then," Tom smiles. "Don. Good to meet you." He holds out his hand.

"Nice to meet you too, sir," he says, shaking it. Well then.

As they're in the car back to her place, Sloan stares at him. "So he seems to like you."

He shrugs. "I hope so."

"No. He does. When you were in the bathroom, he said … that you were honest to the point of stupid. And he wasn't sure how well that would work for your career, in the long run, but he appreciated it."

"My career will be fine," he says indignantly, purposefully missing the point.

"Eh. I took over management of my college fund when I was in fourth grade. I think we'll be OK. What did you say to him?"

"I told him the truth."

"That … what, the sex is good?"

"Sloan! I have some sense of self-preservation."

"Then what did you tell him?"

He levels with her. "I told him that I didn't think I was good enough for you, but I knew that, and I wasn't going to stop trying."

She kisses him, deeply. "You know, for a journalist you really aren't that great with words. And then sometimes, you really are." She kisses him again.

He kisses her back. "I really mean it, you know."

She looks at him. "You're selling yourself short."

"I think I'm selling myself at exactly the right price."

"You know, he also said that you were 'surprisingly modest,' which didn't really make sense, but now it's beginning to," she ran a thumb down his cheek. "I want to be here. I don't plan on being elsewhere. And I'm really happy that my dad liked you. Did you like him?"

"Well, of all the Nobel Prizewinners I've met? He definitely ranks near the top." She laughs, then pushes his shoulder. "No. I liked him. Your parents … You make more sense, after meeting the two of them."

"Isn't that what's supposed to happen?" she says. "Isn't that the point?"

He gets a picture in his head suddenly, then, of a little kid, with his curls and Sloan's eyes, reciting The Wealth of Nations while wearing untied Converse. Suddenly, the idea of kids isn't so hypothetical anymore. "You're probably right," he smiles.


	10. If it's a Friend You Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'll be up front: I'm not totally crazy about this chapter. It's an alt-lens look at "Election Night parts 1 and 2" which was my least favorite episode of the Newsroom, for a lot of reasons, for a lot of plot and some character reasons. One was the ridiculousness of the Jerry-suing-Don lawsuit, because it was unrealistic for a whole host of reasons. Another was the way Genoa got wrapped up and magically disappeared (presumably). But I also felt that if I was going to even be semi-faithful to season 2's second half, I needed to address it at some point. So I wrote this, and it begs, borrows, and steals a lot from that episode - I took what happened and layered the Hearts are Strong timeline over it. So a lot of the dialogue and situations are going to be familiar, and not mine.
> 
> What I didn't reuse, though, was the control-room kiss. Because that, quite honestly, was pretty perfect. :)

November

If you had asked Don Keefer in November 2011 what the best day of the year 2012 would be, he would have immediately said election night. Election nights are where boys become men, when legends were born, when you showed up to make it count. Your entire year, as a journalist, as a producer, boiled down to this — eight or ten hours straight, on the air; so many moving parts it would make you dizzy; an outcome you can plan for but not actually predict at all. He fucking thrived on it. Lived for it. The closest word to describe the emotions of an election night was triumphant. Or maybe transcendent. In 2011, he would have predicted it being the best night of his year.

And then, of course, he'd decided sometime around April that he was going to convince Sloan Sabbith to marry him by the end of the year, so election night was promptly demoted to a distant second. Which still would have been awesome — after all, he'd get to share the election night with her. Double the fun. He'd be in Sloan's ear all night, working with Mac and Elliot and Will and everyone else, for Charlie, and it would be awesome (plus, marathon coverage amped both of them up, and he was confident that the sex would be phenomenal that night).

But it could not come at a worse time, quite frankly. Shortly after they sold his apartment, put an offer down on the fucking most perfect condo on Riverside, and had put her place on the market, Sandy had displaced them (her Financial District apartment was fine but the building was not and had no power. Obviously it would delay any fucking sale). They're still on track to buy the new place because Sloan is a stock-market genius, but between living in Charlie's backup Midtown studio and Genoa — that clusterfuck to end all clusters and all fucks — Don has had a few better elections, the promise of hot-married-sex notwithstanding.

And Genoa. Seriously. If he hadn't had Sloan to focus on over the last twelve months, he would guess he'd be a hell of a lot more livid about Jerry Fucking Dantana (as he now refers to the bastard, about whom he can and has said many things, even though he deserves exactly zero of any of their time or attention). As it is, he's just plain furious (and a little sad).

But he's got to temper that with the recognition that it's making Sloan absolutely come fucking apart at the seams with guilt and worry. She feels she (and she alone) should have caught his lies. And now it's spun so completely out of her control that it's driving her insane (It's driving him insane, too, but he tends to redirect or get jackassy whereas she tends to obsess, and as a producer he recognizes that that's distracting for an anchor. Plus, despite the stress, it is a fucking election night, which is six hours. of. live. coverage. Which is inherently amazing, mess swirling around them or no). She's worried that ACN won't recover, that Charlie and Will and Mac will get sued and fired. And because of that, they'll probably both be out of jobs soon.

Because they all talked — him and her and Jim and Neal and Maggie and the rest of the News Night crew — and they all agreed. They would go too. It only makes sense — they vetted and researched and ran a bad story, and this is a consequence they should bear too. But it also means they've gotta figure out a way to pay their shiny new mortgage when their savings run out, and that's his job. Sloan might be the money genius, but crisis management — that's his thing.

"Hey," Sloan says as he enters the makeup room. She's waiting patiently for Bethany as Elliot gets all dolled up.

"Hey," he says, "Looking pretty, Elliot."

"Fuck you," Elliot throws back lightly.

"Are you set?" he asks Sloan, leaning on the makeup counter in front of her chair.

"Of course I'm set," Sloan says, her voice quicker than usual as she scrolls data on her iPad. He knows that she's a fucking pro, but she's also stressed and this is her first presidential election. It's a big night, so he's checking, for personal and professional reasons. Her eyes flick up, just for a moment, and then quickly back down. That's not a good sign.

"Just asking. Water? Coffee? Gummi bears?"

"All of those are at the desk. Sex would be great but my hair's already done and Bethany would get mad," she says archly, to distract him from how nervous she is. He knows she's just pushing back since he's openly concerned, so he decides to play along, disarm her with a wolfish grin.

"Gross, you guys," Elliot says.

Honeymoon phase," he replies.

"You have three minutes if you want to kiss her. I'm serious," Bethany says, and he knows that she is. Bethany has cornered him over messing up Sloan's lipstick before. He leans forward, kisses her lightly. She grabs his elbow to keep him there a second longer.

"You're gonna be great," he says.

"I know," she says back, looking him in the eyes confidently to reassure him before casting them toward the door. "Is there anything new out there? Anything about Will and Mac and Charlie?"

He shakes his head. "Mrs. Lansing still won't accept their resignations." His eyes cast over to the door as Taylor Howard walks in. He doesn't know her, at all, yet, but Mac and Sloan seem to like her, so she's safe. "We still all in agreement?"

"Yup," Elliot frowns.

"Yeah," Sloan says, her eyes dark and anxious again. "Is everyone else still in agreement? They're younger. I'd get it if they weren't."

"Nah, they're solid," he says. "If anything Jim's the most adamant." They were all worried about him, Sloan, and Elliot, the ones with mortgages and families. But everyone's ready to stick to the plan.

"He blames himself," Sloan points out.

"So do you," he says, "even though neither of you should."

"Well, we were the red team—" she cuts in.

"And we did our jobs, and shit blew up because of Jerry Fucking Dantana, Sloan. He doctored the tape. So we'll going to deal with the consequences but for god's sake, babe, please do not take any more of the blame than you should." He winces at the babe. Neither of them like pet names, especially in public. But this is an argument that's getting tired. Fuck, it was tired a month ago.

"I'm only —"

"No. You're not," he says bluntly. He knows that besides a feeling of guilt, worry for Mac and for Will and a fear of letting Charlie down is also there, but she's not going to talk about that right now. Those are even farther out of her realm of control and she's not going to own them now.

"For the record, I completely will share some of that blame with you," she shoots back, snarky hints of levity in her voice. He sighs, because he knows she's mostly worried he opened himself and Elliot up when he shut down the interview, and she does think the red team should have figured it out. "But only part."

"Yeah, yeah, in sickness and in health, Sabbith," he says wryly. "But it'll be fine. If Mrs. Lansing's not accepting their resignations now she's not going to. We'll fight this, together, because he is to fucking blame. Alright?"

"Got it," she says, as Bethany starts on her face. Mac texts him, and he says, "I gotta go. Bethany, can I have a cheek?"

She steps back. "Right side," she orders, and he kisses her lightly.

"You'll knock 'em dead," he says, just to her, before straightening. "Come on, guys. It's election night. Fucking election night!" he pumps his hand above his head, and Sloan gives him a quick, pursed-lip, oh-honey-no head shake. "You got this," he says, as he begins to thumb a response to Mac. He gets another text, from Charlie. When you have a chance, Rebecca Halliday needs to see you.

Why? he texts back.

No idea. Finish your work first. It's a busy night here.

Fuck. Rebecca's actually not too bad, especially for a lawyer, but this doesn't sound like a good sign. And it's not like he's not exceptionally busy tonight or anything. He'll deal with this later.

So he finds Mac, deals with the Decision Desk crap, hides in his office, talks to Maggie about the California bullshit, gives John a deadline that he's going to stick to, powwows with more people, gets ready to go. He's busy.

He forgets about Charlie's text.

He forgets about it, that is, until he walks into his office and sees Rebecca.

"I was just leaving you a note that said I need a minute," she says primly, in that way out-of-place-expensive purple dress. Sloan would be able to tell him how much it's worth, and he would not believe her.

"Am I being sued again?" he jokes, because really. Things could not be worse.

Rebecca gives it to him bluntly. He appreciates that about her. "Yeah. You're going to be named defendant in a separate suit to be filed tomorrow by Jerry Dantana. He's seeking an additional 20 million dollars for tortious interference."

Those are not words that are familiar to him. He waits for an explanation, but there's none forthcoming. "What's happening?" Because it's election night and Sloan is losing her shit on air and holy fucking hell, 20 million would be a lot of money and that's the apartment and college tuition and he kind of can't breathe.

So Rebecca walks him through that. Honestly, he can barely remember this phone call — it was right around the time of the wedding. Yes, he called him a sociopath. Of course he called him a sociopath, because he fucking is. No, he did not actually receive any medical training at the Columbia School of Journalism. Finally, he says, "How much is this going to cost me?" Because maybe it can go away.

"Twenty million if we lose, a couple hundred thousand if we win."

"We don't have a couple hundred thousand," he protests. Because it's true. They have some savings but …

"Do you own your apartment or rent?"

Oh to the fuck to the no. "We're closing on a new place on Friday," he says.

She looks at him with a bit of pity, then shrugs. "Second mortgage. Problem solved."

"You are a race of godless, soulless extortionists," he accuses without rancor.

Her expression shifts to compassion. "You need to talk to your wife."

He slumps back in his chair. Crisis management, his ass, he thinks.

He takes another minute to lay one of his Polish grandmother's curses on Jerry-Fucking-Dantana. Bastard needs to fucking rot.

But then — even though he's got, oh, about a million things to do, he starts googling. Fighting tortious interference. Countersuing. Chances of winning tortious interference. What is a tort? He learns fascinating things about pudding and shower caps.

"What are you doing?" Sloan's terse, irritated voice cuts through the room. "We're kind of in the middle of something here. It's called an election; heard of one?"

He looks up fuzzily. "I thought we threw to D.C.?"

"We're coming back in eight, and Will wants to talk to everyone."

"He does?"

"That's what he said. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just … figuring something out," he says, clicking out of the Lexis Nexis article on intentional infliction of emotional distress. It definitely sounded promising.

"What's wrong?" she says instantly "You have that face on."

"This is my face. I can't change my face. You married this face."

"Hate to burst your bubble, Violet Beauregarde, but you have a 'something's wrong' face and this is it. Please tell me."

"What's this Will thing?" he says, scooting around her.

"I don't know," she says, "I mean, I'm guessing it's about Genoa. Do you think he found out? Speaking of finding out, what are you not telling me? I'm pretty sure I can invoke wifely privilege on this one."

"Let's get through whatever the fuck Will wants to put us through," he says.

"Don," she says, stopping in her tracks, using that hushed, overwhelmed voice she sometimes uses. "Don. Tell me. Is it serious?"

He sighs. "It's fine. It's about the lawsuit, it's all. Something with my testimony."

Sloan pauses, still in the middle of the hectic newsroom. She's considering him. Considering whether he's telling the truth or not, and he fidgets, slightly annoyed under her gaze. They don't normally hold hands — or anything — at work, especially in the newsroom. In fact, after they'd gotten married, Tess had confessed that she had suspected they had broken up and didn't want to tell people because they were so low-key at work. But she's frozen to the spot, so he takes her hand and gently leads her back to the studio. She accepts this. He's sometimes awed by her faith in him.

"Everybody here?" Will asks brusquely when they arrive. Sloan slides into her seat at the Decision Desk.

"Yes, let's go around the room and let's everyone tell everyone something about ourselves," Mac snipes.

"Do you need to go back to the control room?" Will asks.

"Yes," she says decisively, then daintily picks up her drink and phone and exits.

"I don't know what the hell you guys are thinking of doing, but you're not doing it," Will announces, full of patriarchal bluster, when she's gone. "Last night, Charlie, Mac and I offered our resignations to Mrs. Lansing. She refused to accept them, believing that the right thing to do is to stand by us. Charlie is working hard on Reese to get him to change his mother's mind. The reason — the whole reason — we're trying to resign is to allow the rest of you to continue what we started without the burden of Genoa. Elliot would take my job, Don would take Mac's" — he rolls his eyes, "Sloan would take Elliot's and Jim would be her EP. So I don't want to hear any more rumors about the rest of you resigning. Is that clear?"

"No," Don speaks up. Sloan gives him a look — part shellshock (probably from his duck earlier), part admiration.

"It's not clear?" Will say tensely.

"No, it's clear. We're saying no."

"No to what?"

"If Leona accepts your resignations, we're resigning too," Jim says. He's proud of the kid. He's come a long ways. "Everyone who's involved with Genoa."

"I'm not going to accept that."

"Due respect, if Leona accepts yours you're not going to be in a position —"

"We gave you a bad story," Don interrupts, irritation at the whole damn chain of events curdling up. "It's our responsibility. There are principles of … principle here, and character, and responsibility."

"Who put all this in your head?"

"You did," he replies, almost chirpily, because it's true.

"You expect me to get choked up?" Will asks archly.

Whatever. "Meeting's over," he announces. "Two minutes back." He exchanges a quick look with Sloan before heading out. There are things to do. Chief among them, deal with Dantana.

But the night continues to spiral out of control. Will and Mac leave them high and dry, Elliot and Sloan at the desk and him in the control room, nothing but a terse, "See you in eight minutes," to keep him company. Like eight minutes will prove a fucking point to Leona Lansing. He waits a beat before diving into action, taking that moment to contemplate the ways in which his night could be worse. For instance, he could be dead. That's something. He preps Sloan with something about the damn House races, and she just mutters back, "This is getting out of hand."

"Ahh, don't worry about that now, kay?" he says, mustering joviality, and she shoots him a look through the monitor.

But she repeats, "Copy," and he breathes a little easier.

Watching them, watching his wife, watching his best friend, he realizes — he absolutely does not need WIll and Mac, but his life means a little less without them there. If they go, the rest of them should go too. He had always agreed with the principle of leaving: They had fucked up and deserved to share in the consequences. But now, watching Sloan and Elliot, he realizes that wherever he's go next — whether it's tomorrow or two years or twenty — it's going to mean just a little less than doing this. He doesn't need Mac or Will for professional guidance, hasn't for a long time. But he needs them for moral support, for friendship, for solidarity, for strength. Goddamn, this is exactly all he wants out of life — producing, here, Sloan, by his side. He doesn't need much.

He's going to fight Dantana. And he's going to be the ever-loving shit out of him.

And at that moment he gets angry.

As soon as Mac is back, he returns to his office, ostensibly for a break, and starts googling. Texts Rebecca. She moves scary fast — or she was waiting on him — because she's in front of him in an instant. "I got your text."

Yeah. "I've decided to counter-sue Jerry," he announces, and he feels hot.

"Of course."

"I'm fighting back."

"What are you suing him for?"

Isn't it obvious? "To fight back."

"I meant exactly what are you—"

He's set. "You ready?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said you ready?"

"Give it to me."

"Intentional infliction of emotional distress." He's proud of this one.

"How do you even know?"

"I Googled it."

"There are four elements. One: He acted intentionally —"

That one's a no brainer, and he's prepped. "By doctoring the tape." Done. Shouldn't it begin and end there, anyways?

"— Two: His conduct was extreme and outrageous."

"He doctored the tape."

"—Three: You suffered distress."

Well, no fucking shit. "I am in extreme distress."

She takes a deep breath. "And four: His act caused your distress."

"He doctored the motherfucking tape, Rebecca."

She's amused. "You sound upset."

"Do I? He doctored the tape and he gets to sue us? I gave him a bad job recommendation 'cause he doctored the tape and he gets to sue me? The people who want tort reform, they got a point."

"Yes."

And he's off, ranting about the irons and the shower caps and pudding, because really, either everyone's a fucking idiot and the world's doomed, or lawyers just think they're all fucking idiots and the world's doomed. "Do we really have to slow down for these people?" he finally concludes.

"Leona's leaving the decision to Reese."

He stills. "I know."

"That's not what you wanted."

He deflates further, takes a seat. "I don't know what I want. I want to keep doing the news. Here. With Elliot for Charlie. Next to Sloan. I want to keep arguing with Mac and Will," he pauses. "I want Dantana to iron his clothes while wearing them." They both laugh a little.

"Can someone please tell me what's going on?"

He jumps up. Fucking fucking-A. "Sloan," he says. She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips expectantly.

Rebecca glides up. "I should go," she says coolly, slinks out the door like a cat.

"You need to tell me what's going on," she says, her arms crossed. "Now, please. Because I have like 90 seconds to get you back to the control room."

"Then we should go."

"Donald Blaine Keefer, I am not leaving until you tell me."

He sighs. "I'm being sued."

"We're all being sued."

"Not all of us. Just me. Jerry's filing a separate suit against me. Tortious interference."

"What contract does he claim you interrupted?" she asks, and he's reminded — fuck — that his wife was raised by a lawyer, and she probably knows a few things.

"He was applying for a job. I got a call for a recommendation from Kickstarter, and I may have called him a sociopath, despite the fact that I have no clinical background with which to make this diagnosis, which is apparently, you know, a problem. I don't really remember the call, since it was right around the time of —"

"Why is this a big deal?" she asks bluntly.

"Because he's suing me. And it's for twenty million dollars. We have an apartment to close on this weekend! Among other life things."

"Did you ask Rebecca to indemnify you?"

"What?"

"This is a tactical move; he's going for you first, but his lawyers probably are going to just start suing everyone individually for leverage. She needs to indemnify you from any harm. You were an ACN employee discharging your duties: If you hadn't told him that and Jerry would've plagiarized, Kickstarter could've sued you and ACN for not warning him that Jerry had a history of flagrantly unethical behavior. You were protecting ACN; they can indemnify you."

"What does that mean?"

"Sign a contract and agree to hold a party — you — harmless, essentially. Hell, your ACN contract might do this already. They would absorb fees and any losses, but they won't lose, since there aren't any witnesses to this call — there aren't are there?"

"No."

"Right. So they won't lose, and it tactically blocks their strategy. You need to request that ACN indemnify you, and the suit will basically go away. A judge would throw this out in ten seconds."

"So we wouldn't have to pay."

"No. Have you listened? ACN will cover it."

"You're sure about this?"

"If they don't, we're suing them."

He kisses her deeply then.

She pulls back. "You need to go produce things." Then a Look crosses her face. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"What?"

"You knew about this before now. You knew about this when I came to get you for McAvoy's last stand. Why did you wait?"

"Why did I wait? Sloan, it's a little busy around here. You're in the middle of a broadcast. I'm in the middle of a broadcast."

"So you were producing me?" she says. "Keeping me calm for a broadcast."

"What?" he gapes. "What? I was … this was not the time."

"You have to tell me things. We're married."

"Right, and I was going to tell you, just, you know … not here. You're on the air, I'm in the middle of production, it's not exactly quiet."

"You were going to tell me eventually?"

"Yes," he says emphatically.

"But after you handled it," she says, like that just proves her point. He suspects that whatever answer he had given, it would have reinforced whatever she's trying to say.

"What?" he asks, clueless.

"You were going to handle it first."

"Well clearly not, since you figured out the indemnification thing."

"You were figuring out a solution," she says.

"I mean … I knew first since someone is suing me? So I was told first?" he's becoming completely confused.

"We're back in 30," Jenna runs by.

"You need to go and be on air and do your job," he says, gesturing to the studio.

"Yeah, yeah. This isn't done, mister."

"Is it ever?" he mutters weakly when she's back in her seat, rolling his eyes heavenward.

As soon as they're through the segment, she says, "Don, I'd like you to flip me off the public channel so that we can have a quick chat."

"Oh, for crying out loud — go talk it out," Mac spits over the headset. "Both of you, just go to Don's office, now." Sloan slides off her stool, obliging and imperious.

"For the record, I'm not —"

"JUST GO," Mac bellows. She's a little tense. As an understatement. "And I want 90 seconds on the gender gap when you get back!"

"Ok, for the record, I'm not sure why you're mad at me, when I think we can all agree this is Jerry fucking Dantana's fault," he rambles as he enters his office. She's standing up, staring at the Sweet Smell of Success poster on his wall. He's always liked that movie.

"I'm mad because you're treating me like an anchor on something where you should clearly be treating me as your wife," she says.

"You think I should have dropped everything, yanked you off the air, pulled you aside, the second I found out about the suit from Rebecca? You think it was that simple? Is that what you're saying, that it was that simple?"

"Yes! That is exactly what I am saying."

"I'm going to have to ask that we agree to disagree then," he says, "Because it's rough out there, Sloan. You're all going to fucking hell in a clown car, and Will's the … clown-in-chief. As the executive producer on the goddamn broadcast, I also need to watch out for the integrity of the show and make sure one of our main anchors doesn't have a fucking meltdown on air. And as your husband, I'm not going to blindside you on one of the most important nights of your career!"

"That would be all well and good if I thought timing was your primary motivation here," she says, her voice a little elevated.

"What the fuck do you think my primary motivation is?" he yells right back.

She pauses, her voice quiet. "To fix this for me. Like how you keep checking up on me."

"What the fuck does that actually even mean?"

She rolls her eyes. "You try and take care of things. You're a producer; I don't think you can help it. Your first instinct is to figure it out and then come to me with a plan and then take care of it. Take care of me." She doesn't mean it in a flattering way.

He sighs, because his desire to fix things is really what most of their arguments boil down to — that and how goddamn stubborn she is sometimes. "Can't we just chalk this up to me being the guy?" he jokes.

"No, that's bullshit. We're in this together, so tough luck, pal. I need to know you'll let me into decisions," she says, biting the bottom of her lip.

"You need to know now?" he asks, gesturing around. "Cause we're kinda in the middle of something here …"

"Yes!" she says. "I'm here, we're married. We need to be able to talk about things."

"Alright, then, do you want to talk about Genoa and why it's affecting you so much?"

She gapes. "It's affecting all of us —"

"Obviously, I just got sued for flying off the handle at this guy. But you're the one who has to be on air, and it's a lot of pressure, and it's upsetting you, and you won't let me help there so —" he gestures, slightly helplessly, "I guess I'm trying to help over here. Yes, there were multiple reasons, one of which was work and another of which was the fact that, yeah, I like to fix things and I like to have a plan, because I'm good at that, I'm good at being the guy with the plan. But you're freaking me out, Sloan, with how much you're freaking out. You're stressing out about enough, I took that off your plate."

"We need you," Jenna says, popping her head in. "Back in 30. Sorry."

"Be right there," Don calls. "We'll talk later," he says, pushing pause the argument and trying to exit.

"Don, wait," Sloan calls, and he turns. She's up against him swiftly, pressing a somewhat out-of-character kiss to his lips. He reciprocates, placing his hand on her hip, drifting into the kiss for a second. "I'm sorry," she apologizes before rushing toward the studio.

The world explodes that night, like a glittering Roman candle searing through their lives, creating a before and an after. MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy. He loves it. Reese decides to save their skins, too, and between all that and Obama winning re-election there's just a hell of a lot of champagne being consumed. Sometime around one a.m., half drunk on either alcohol or emotion, he wanders into his office, intent on finding his missing cell phone. Thankfully, it's on his desk.

"Hey," Sloan calls from the corner. "I'm down here."

He drops his phone. "What are you … What are you doing down here?"

"Just chilling," she says. "Waiting for you," she admits.

"You know, you knew exactly where I was. It wasn't that hard to find me." He crouches, then sits, next to her.

"I wanted some space. And to say I'm sorry," she smiles, takes his hand. "I trust you. And I should've trusted you."

He shrugs as she settles against his shoulder. "I shouldn't've played it off like that initially."

"Forgiven," she says, turning to kiss the dip where his neck meets his collarbone. "We'll be fine." She sounds like she's saying that mostly to herself. "The lawsuit'll get dropped. We'll sign for the apartment on Friday and eventually put my old place on the market, and then we can focus on getting Kenzie and Will down the aisle."

"Yeah, that's not going to be easy," he laughs.

"I just hope at least one person asks her if she's pregnant. It's only fair," Sloan says. "Will did a pretty good job with the proposal, she says."

"As good as I did?"

"Well, he did say the words to her," she laughs. "But no, yours is still my favorite."

He laughs. "Thank you, I appreciate that." She chuckles too, before sighing deeply. "Hey. Do you want to talk about you've been so worried?"

She picks at a lint piece on his jeans. "It's not a new song, you know? I just … got rattled." She wrinkles her nose. "I think it showed on-air."

"If it did," (which it did), "nobody's going to remember tomorrow. And hey, I'm a pretty good listener. If you want to talk."

She smiles. "I feel a lot better now. I mean, I still think I fucked up. That we fucked up. Badly."

"Most of it was Jerry's —"

"I know. I agree. But I think we all have some culpability. And that's a lot to live with. But I'm not scared anymore, and I was for most of the night. Let's just stay here for a second, alright? This was actually a pretty good night, by the end of it all. And I like it here."

He smiles, because it was. They're essentially homeless, they're facing a lawsuit that will humiliate all of them, and they're about to dump all the money they have into this apartment. There are a thousand and six reasons why this shouldn't be a good night. But their friends got engaged, they still have jobs — for now — and a warm, content Sloan is curled into his side.

He's a lucky guy.


	11. You'll follow her wherever she goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. So ... I'm sorry (ducks to avoid flying objects). I know I came out and was like, "There will be TWENTY FIVE installments and then dropped off the face of the earth. But it's been quite busy! Insanely busy, in fact. And we got a new cable package, so we lost HBOGo, which makes rewatching episodes and nailing characters' voices pretty tough. But ... hopefully this sounds like them? And makes up for some stuff, namely, my lack of attention to this story? It's part screwball, part portrait-of-a-marriage, and I hope it's in character. I seriously would love your feedback.
> 
> I'll be upfront about the rest of my progress: I'm partway through the next two, and have the rest of them (it'll either be twenty-four or twenty-six now, so they each get the same number of POVs) mapped out. But, Thicker is giving me massive writer's block, on a Sloan chapter, so that might get my scant time/attention next. But rest assured, I love this story/these characters, and will be working to keep it going.
> 
> Title from "For the Summer" by Ray, of course.

July

Pregnancy, Don quickly realizes, is nothing like what either of them had been expecting (If they had been expecting anything, which they hadn't. Obviously.). It's a little bit like those weeks after losing your virginity, where you expect it to be immediately apparent and people to just know, but it's not and they don't. Small things change immediately — they almost entirely stop showing up at Hang Chew's; Sloan has a thing of crackers on her at all times; he starts coming in when she does just in case; her boobs seem absolutely huge — but no change is significant enough for someone who doesn't observe them obsessively to notice.

After their weekend in Newport, which basically consisted of sex, food, and holding Sloan's hair while she puked, they return for a 7:45 doctor's appointment Monday morning. He'd had his entire morning cleared, which was a good thing: The doctor needs to know everything. He has no idea how much he weighed at birth, or whether or not his brother was a full-term baby, or what his mother's blood type is.

The gynecologist — call-me-Michelle — reassures them that the baby will be fine despite all the caffeine Sloan's had in the last two months, weighs Sloan, and chides Sloan for being slightly underweight, which Sloan blames on the morning sickness. Then it's blood tests — Sloan gets poked, he flinches. She rolls her eyes and pats his hand.

Finally it's time for the ultrasound. He positions himself by Sloan's head, squeezes her hand. The machine whirs to life, and the tech brings out the scope. He winces, because he figures it has to hurt. Sloan rolls her eyes, and gently presses his cheek to turn his head so he's staring at the monitor instead. At first it's completely black, but then it makes a whoosh noise and suddenly there's shadowy images undulating across the screen. The tech maneuvers the probe, and suddenly — "that's it," call-me-Michelle says, pointing out the the particular blob. "That's your baby. Congratulations, Mom and Dad."

They both stare at it for a minute, then he breathes out, "Holy hell." They stare at each other, excitement and awe in their eyes, before they both start tentatively, nervously laughing. He starts pressing kisses to her face, and she starts crying, just a little, and gripping his hand, hard. Michelle and the tech give them a few seconds. The computer captures the image of the fetus, and after a few clicks starts blinking '7 weeks, 5 days.'

"You're a little farther along than I expected, but that's good," Michelle remarks. "Based on what you're measuring, I'm going to give you a due date of February 5."

And just like that, they become the something's parents. Michelle snaps a picture and prints out two copies — it's fuzzy and indistinct, but undeniably there. This is real. It's amazing. He's scared — shit, he's terrified — but this is extraordinary.

"How should we tell people?" he says, lacing his fingers through hers as they leave. He wants to skip. Is that normal?

"I … I don't think we should tell anyone. Not for a while, at least," she says, her brow furrowed. "Well. We should probably tell our families. But you aren't supposed to tell, you know, other people until after the first trimester."

He shrugs. "You heard her. At eight weeks, there's very little chance of, you know … things going wrong. And besides, Will and Mac already know."

"Yeah, but we tell people at work and someone says something to someone else, and then Charlie wants an announcement and then we get recognized on the street or people on Twitter start saying things and … I don't know. It's so early … don't you just want to keep it between us, for a while?"

He gets her hesitance, he really does. Her big economist brain can't help running the odds, calculating what could go wrong (he does that, too, but since he's not a genius it's a more generic worrying). Beyond that, he knows she'll be uncomfortable with any attention about this. She's not famous-famous, but she'd certainly be told by the network to pimp it in People, she'll get chatter on Twitter, she may even get photographed at brunch or Gristede's or whatever. All of those things strike her as strange, even fundamentally wrong and intrusive. She's rigorously private, guarded even with those closest to her. Her preferred method of telling everyone she's pregnant, he knows, would be to simply go on maternity leave one day in February and return three months later. He gets to be the private citizen and beyond that, he's the guy — his body won't be changing, won't be up for public scrutiny. He has to respect her opinion on that.

"Sure, but it's going to get a little obvious at some point," he says. "When are you thinking of telling?"

"Sixteen? Twenty weeks? Early September, I guess, we tell people." He scoffs, because she is tiny and there's no way they're going two extra months with this, but she says, "Hey. I'm serious, mister. What's wrong with that?"

He schools his face. "Nothing. Let's wait and see, okay?" he says. "The first trimester, at least. That's another month." He likes that. It gives him time to get used to it. Still, he's a little disappointed. Mostly he's disappointed he can't shout it from the rooftops, but Sloan would kill him.

"Hey," she says as he starts to pull her down the stairs, and she tugs him back. She kisses him, deeply, and he responds by resting his hands on her waist. She pulls back, ghosts her hands over his cheekbones and then digs her fingers into his hair. "I'm a little scared but … I'm really excited about this." She studies him carefully, like she's worried he might be disappointed in her. And frankly, that's a little alarming.

So he smiles back. "I love you. Let's go get breakfast. Plain yogurt and saltines sound good?" She makes a face as he laughs.

Not telling people, of course, would be much easier if they didn't work sixteen-hour-plus days and if Sloan's morning sickness didn't last all day (and if her moods stabilized, though that might be just directed at him).

"Do I look like I've just spent the last twenty minutes dry-heaving?" she asks, only half-joking, as she fixes her hair post-puke one afternoon a couple days later. It's a miracle, but somehow she hasn't thrown up on air or had to make a mad dash to the bathroom in the middle of a meeting yet. Any other time of the day, though, and she's on a couch trying to quell vomit.

"You look fine, just … here," he thumbs some caked-on vomit from the corner of her mouth. Ew.

"That's disgusting," she says, scratching the same place to make sure that it was all gone.

"You're beautiful even when covered in vomit," he says chivalrously, but that sounds cheesy so he smirks. "That's what I'm supposed to say to my pregnant wife, right?"

"You're an ass, and I should kiss you since I haven't brushed my teeth yet," she threatens, but with a smile. He's thankful for that; these days, she just as easily could have started crying. But she walks ahead of him. "We're late. What do you think Charlie's going to discuss today?"

"Same thing that's in every long-term planning meeting," he shrugs, opening the door and gesturing for her to hurry up. It's a monthly snooze-fest: Assignments for overseas shoots, lectures that the anchors aren't using Twitter enough, and strategy for long-term coverage of elections and the Middle East. "You think Marina from politics will bring that popcorn again?"

"Oh, yes, what would a meeting be without Marina's delicious popcorn," Sloan mocks, rolling her eyes.

He rolls his eyes too. "Come on, Sloan, I like the cookies'n'cream popcorn. I mean, seriously. It's cookies. And cream. Popcorn. The person who invented it … genius."

"She's just trying to make everyone else fatter," Sloan says darkly. "As if I need help in that regard."

"Ok, A, shut up, you're the skinniest pregnant person I've ever seen," he says, keeping his voice low. "B, what the hell is your problem with Marina? I think I've seen you talk to her twice. And C, Cookies. And cream. Popcorn. How can you not want that?"

She's opening her mouth to retort as he opens the door to the conference room for her, and they slide into the two extra seats that Mac has saved for them. They're the last of the two dozen attendees to arrive, so they're lucky (and unlucky) that she nabbed the seats.

"So glad that the two of you can take the time out of your busy schedules to join us," Charlie snarks as they enter. "Were you napping on your couches again?"

"One day I'm going to figure out what floor HR is on, Charlie Skinner, and you're going to rue that day," Sloan says. "Sorry. Where were we?" Marina has brought the Dylan's Candy Bar popcorn again, this time an amazing peanut-butter-cup variety, and he happily pours out two handfuls. Sloan rolls her eyes. He's going to blame it on the hormones, especially since she ends up eating half of his portion. They zip through Egypt, Syria, and Snowden coverage when Charlie says, "And finally, to wrap up — the Royal Baby."

"Come on. This is not news," Mac groans. "This is procreation. Hundreds of thousands of couples do it across the globe on a daily basis." She's about to say more, but she winces as if kicked. Don looks at Sloan, who stares straight ahead.

"You're the last person who can criticize this, you know," Will says. "The future of your monarchy is at stake. You have a personal stake."

"The monarchy is secure for at least sixty years already. Does this add to the discourse? Does this give the voter —"

"Oh, for crying out loud, it's a pretty lady in nice hats who's having a pretty baby," Will says, irritated with his fiancee's point. "This story is crack; it's completely addictive and they'll keep paying for it. Over and over again."

"Ok, stop, George the Third and General Washington," Charlie says. "Sabbith. You're going. Congratulations."

"What?" Sloan asks, startled.

"You're going. They're not releasing the due date, so we're kind of shooting in the dark. We'll send you with a one-way ticket on the tenth, and we'll book you back after she delivers. You'll probably be gone a week."

About seventy-two emotions cross Sloan's face, and he struggles not to go all "macho blowhard" (her term) on the assembled talent and executive producers. "I'm an economist," she finally says, "with two Ph.D.s. Not one. Two. Who hosts the seven o'clock hour. On politics, the economy, and the news of the day. And you want me to sit outside during a heatwave and not, you know, report on the economy or other news for two weeks?" And she has a doctor's appointment on the thirteenth where we're supposed to hear the heartbeat, Don wants to add. Plus, the puking. The constant puking. His fingers itch. Sloan grabs his hand to make him stop fidgeting.

"A week. Plus. In London. Whispers from CNN say they're sending Anderson. Why the hell are you complaining about this?"

"Because it's, I don't know, not my usual area of coverage? I'll look ridiculous? It pulls me away from my show, which I'm just getting off the ground?" Sloan says. "You know what? We'll talk about this later. Let's talk about the ACA, or something equally as exciting."

"I'm with Sloan, I think it's demeaning to send the pre … a pretty, similarly-aged anchor to cover the birth," Mac chimes in. He can't tell if it's because Mac worried about the pregnancy or because she does think it's demeaning. He guess it's mostly because she thinks it's demeaning.

Charlie gives her a look, makes a low whistle and goes, "Christ. The two of you. Moving on."

After the meeting is adjourned, Charlie comes up to Sloan, making a 'What the hell, Sabbith?' gesture. "Let's go to your office," she says, keeping her head down in the throng.

"Ya think?" he says. "You really think?"

"Now, please," she says.

"Who is the head of news and who is the anchor here?" he asks. "What the fucking fuck, Sabbith?"

"Look, I've got to be at a pre-tape in an hour so maybe save the righteous indignation." Sloan leads Charlie into his office and Don follows to make sure she doesn't break her resolution and tell him she's pregnant.

"Keefer, I get that you two are married, but you don't need to be here. This isn't a tree for you to pee on. You need to go do things for Elliot, things that I pay you for!"

"No, he stays," Sloan says. "I'm not going to London, Charlie, I can't. Most importantly, it's crazy demeaning to me and hurts our coverage overall. Two Ph.D.s. The seven o'clock hour. I'm not fucking around here."

"This will expand your brand, Sloan. You're already more than an economics reporter; you're in news, energy, defense, elections, as an anchor. This pushes you into lifestyle."

"I am in lifestyle. I've reported on the Pope and a country-music star who had a stroke and shoplifting celebutantes," she says. "I'm not going. Moreover, it's a mistake to send me. Send Mercida or Chung or someone else who doesn't sound like a complete idiot when prattling on about shoes, but don't send me."

"I thought this would be a nice reward! You're doing great. Starting Line is settling in well and gaining an audience. So, London for a week." He's using that cajoling, expansive, Grandpa Charlie tone that he often uses to wheedle. It usually works like a charm on Sloan, but she's not falling for it today.

"It makes me look weak, it diminishes my credibility, it introduces unnecessary questions about who is covering my two shows, and we don't know when this baby is going to come," Sloan says. "I could be there for weeks, sitting out there and knitting with whatever sun-kissed brunette the Today show sends. Also," she pauses, ramped up, and Don knows what is coming, and he cringes, "given that I'm pregnant too, and puking every two hours like it's in my job description, I really don't want to engage in some charming 'Where-is-the-restroom-oh-you-mean-the-loo' banter with a policeman on the street outside the hospital." She stops, slightly shocked at her own outburst.

Charlie's mouth drops open.

"I think it's called a bobby over there," Don says, for some levity.

"You're pregnant," Charlie says blankly.

"Yup," Sloan says, biting her lip. "Ten weeks tomorrow."

"You got her pregnant?" Charlie says, his voice rising demandingly, and Don flashes back to Charlie catching them making out during Valentine's Day last year. Jesus, was that sixteen months ago?

"She was there too," he says, trying for calm. "I didn't …"

"Not now," Sloan cuts in.

"You were there and enjoying it, I think that's an important distinction!" Don protests as Charlie blanches.

"You just pulled the pregnancy trump card on me to get out of going to London?" Charlie's in disbelief, but there's a hint of pride in his eyes.

"You can say congratulations now," Sloan smirks, crossing her arms.

He gapes between the two of them. "I didn't even know you two were —"

"Oh we weren't," Sloan cuts in.

"Completely unplanned," he assures Charlie.

"And you two are —"

"Happy? Coping? Yes to both," Don says, smiling at Sloan. She has that lovely, inscrutable smile on her face that she gets when she's really happy. It glows. Then she snaps out of it.

"So you can't send me to London," Sloan says, her eyes wide and worried.

"No way in hell you're getting on a plane until — when are you due?"

"February 5th."

"You're not getting on a plane until March, then," Charlie says decisively. Don is glad that their boss is old-fashioned as fuck. Borderline sexist too, but he'll take it.

"Thank you," Sloan says.

"Congratulations. This is why you bought those couches."

"Yup," Sloan nods.

"And you know, we're still not telling anyone," Don cautions, since it's what Sloan wants. "Our families know, Mac and Will know, and that's it."

"And Bethany and Linda, to make me look not-pregnant for as long as possible," Sloan adds. "But yes other than that, we're not telling anyone until September."

"September? I'm supposed to keep this to myself until September?" Charlie asks. "Sloan! Don! This is good news! This is shout-from-a-rooftop good news."

"That we don't want people know until we're a little farther along," Don explains.

"And even then, we're not making any sort of announcement," Sloan adds definitively.

"Bullshit you're not making an announcement," Charlie interrupts. "You're talent, Sloan. You are on air every day. Viewers are going to notice."

"If it's noticeable, then why do I need to make an announcement?" Sloan counters.

"Let's cross this bridge in a while, OK?" Don says, feeling a headache coming on. "Since, you know, we have work to do?"

"Fine," Sloan says. Charlie insists on giving them both hugs and gets a little teary as he congratulates them another four times and says that they're going to be great parents. Don suspects he'll send them a bottle of Scotch sometime within the next twenty-four hours. As they're heading downstairs, though, Sloan tugs his upper arm and says, "Charlie's going to be our downfall. I can feel it."

"You think?" He still can't believe she told him, but she's been so emotional lately he's wary of mentioning that. The other day, she yelled at him when he told her her skirt did not, in fact, make her look fat.

"Oh yeah," she nods. "He was the reason everyone found out we were dating and he'll be the reason everyone finds out I'm pregnant. You have to watch him, Don. Watch him."

His wife has officially lost her mind.

Her prediction comes true, though. A bottle of Scotch arrives on his desk by that afternoon, tied with a pink and blue ribbon and attached to a clutch of balloons. Charlie then replaces Sloan's normal chair with something more ergonomic and a lot of buttons, the type of chair that could probably brew coffee if asked. Charlie also yells at her from across the newsroom to put on flats whenever he sees her wearing Louboutins.

Of course, Don is also hovering like an NSA drone, Will makes her sit down frequently, and Mac's drinking tea in solidarity. Sloan, when not yelling at them to stop treating her like she's made of porcelain, snaps at junior staffers, which she never does. There might as well be banners declaring Mission Accomplished.

"So, uh, not to pry — actually to be completely honest, I'm settling a bet — is, uh, is there any chance Sloan is pregnant?" Jim asks a few weeks later, scratching the back of his neck in his disarmingly affable way as he hovers in Don's doorway. He's not surprised at the questions; beyond everyone's weird behavior, Sloan's figure has been subtly changing — her breasts are bigger, and her stomach, normally so flat, has taken on a small but definite roundness at almost twelve weeks. In response, her wardrobe has taken a hard right from her normally form-fitting stuff into looser outfits with high waists (according to Linda, those were 'empire' waists), which is probably significant enough for Jim or Maggie to notice. Plus, there's nonstop coverage of the Duchess of Cambridge's labor, which has been going on all day (Kate Middle-whatever is already at the hospital, apparently. Don could care less about any pregnant woman besides Sloan). In the newsroom, Tess and Tamara have put up a "Welcome Baby Cambridge" sign, ordered pink and blue cupcakes, and are wearing fancy Ascot hats as they work. There's a charged, off-kilter energy to the entire day.

Don looks up. "People think she's pregnant? Who's the bet between?" He tries for modulated disinterest.

"Maggie and Neal."

"Who's on which side?"

"Maggie says yes, Neal says no."

"Why do they think she's pregnant?" He leans down to pet Clem, who is underneath his chair.

Jim gives him a pitying duh look. "Uh, just … you know. Signs. Lots of signs. And things."

"'Signs, lots of signs, and things'?" he repeats. "How much is at stake?"

"Dignity and a hot dog."

"That's all this is worth? Get out," he says, suppressing a smile as he gestures to the door.

Jim smirks, pleased to have an answer. "You realize you basically confirmed, right? No comment is actually a comment."

"I'll see you Saturday for tennis!" he shouts as Jim exits.

Twenty minutes later, he spots Maggie, clutching a hot dog, hug Sloan. Uh-oh. He jumps up, because this could end very, very badly (at least, he comforts himself, Sloan's done with morning sickness so there's no chance of projectile puking).

"I'm so happy for you," Maggie coos, jumping up and down just a little.

"Maggie, don't —" he cuts her off from saying anything else with a firm shake of his head. "Jim, the hell?" he turns to her boyfriend. He thought it was clear with nonverbals that it (if there was an it) was being kept under wraps.

He shrugs. "Neal bought the hot dog. I just reported the no-comment comment."

"What the hell is going on?" Sloan asks. "What are any of you talking about?"

Sloan's got an edge to her voice, and luckily, they are not dealing with a complete idiot in Maggie. She gulps and says, "The ratings! For Starting Line! I'm so happy for you. And this hot dog? That's just random. It's just a random … a random street hot dog." She smashes the rest of it in her mouth. "Yum," she says, through a mouthful.

Sloan cocks an eyebrow and turns to Don. "Let's talk, yes?"

He raises his hands in exasperation, but follows her into her office. She flops down on the couch, causing Clem, who's napping, to whine and plant her head in Sloan's lap. Sloan's grateful, and starts stroking the dog's forehead. "What did you tell Maggie?" She doesn't seem teary, just exhausted.

"Nothing," he swears, sitting next to her. She curls her head onto his shoulder with a slight whimper. "Neal and Maggie had a bet about whether you were pregnant, Jim was sent to me to settle it, I dodged like Ben Stiller, and I guess he … deduced … and told Maggie she won."

"What side of the bet was she on?"

"That you're pregnant," he says, trailing his fingers down her shoulder.

She scoffs. "I don't even look pregnant."

"Eh," he hedges, fingering the seam of her structured shift dress, and she elbows him. "Hey. I think that's a good thing," he says, kissing her hair. "I'm pretty excited about it. You are pregnant, you're beginning to … blossom —"

"Blossom?" she snorts. "What book did you get that one from?"

"Some expectant-dad guide on the Internet," he admits. He's been googling them way too much these days. She relaxes and chuckles softly, her breath fluttering over his collarbone as she tucks into his side. He feels the tension leave her limbs. "Look, I know you're concerned about … things happening, and I get that. And I don't think you need to announce it to your viewers if you don't want to. But … we are getting to the point where it's safe to tell our friends. And it might be nice, you know, to get to tell people and have them be kind of surprised. We put it off long enough, everyone will be able to tell. I like … most of the people we work with. So I think it'd be nice to, you know —"

"Share it with them?" she says, amused. She then turns deadly serious and starts repeating the arguments she's been making for days. "I know. I just … don't want this to turn into a major thing. I don't want this whole pregnancy to turn into … a water-cooler topic. Or something used to demand attention. One of my friends from college sent me an invitation to her gender-reveal party last year and it was … I was mortified for her. I don't want … any of that. I don't want a pink and blue cake pops, I don't want an ACN Facebook poll where people can vote on the name. When Charlie suggested announcing it on air …. I just … no. I can't do that, I —"

"Hey, hey, hey. I know all of that," he says. "And I don't want that either. And this … this is our thing. And I get that you're worried this will have ramifications for how you're perceived, professionally, and that you're concerned about privacy. Which, hell, I am too. I don't want us to Tweet photos after she's born or put anything about her on Facebook. But we have a few friends that we might want to share it with, and we're getting close to the point where we can't. It'll be obvious. And crap, Sloan, I'm excited about this. I mean, I'm fucking terrified,' she laughs, "but I do want to tell people. I want to tell Jim, and Maggie, and that jackass from Treasury that tries to flirt with you, and Hillary Clinton, and the clerk at the drugstore. But I'll contain myself to our friends, whenever you think it's time. I'm wondering if … maybe that's now. And if it's not now, it's going to be in the next few weeks. The baby's going to say he's here soon enough on his own."

She kisses him, taking him a bit by surprise. "His own, huh?"

"Or hers," he says, but he's pretty convinced it's a boy. Not that he wouldn't love a girl, wouldn't spoil her and threaten boyfriends and teach to play baseball and hog the front row at dance recitals, but he's got a gut feeling it's a boy.

"I love you," she says, kissing him once more. Then she stands, opens the door, and calls, "Neal! Jim! Maggie! In here."

"What are you doing?" he asks from the couch.

"Sharing with our friends," she smiles. They enter.

"What's up?" Maggie says, looking a little scared. There's a smudge of ketchup on her cheek. She self-consciously tucks her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ears.

Sloan crosses her arms, inadvertently making her stomach more prominent. She stares at them, lips pursed, still deciding. Finally — "This probably comes as no shock to any of you, but I'm pregnant," she says evenly.

"Yes! Congratulations," Maggie yelps, flying into Sloan's arms, as Neal fist-pumps and Jim presses a fist to his mouth in excitement. "I knew it," she crows after hugging them both.

"That's awesome," Jim adds.

"When are you due?" Maggie says.

"February. Early February," Don replies.

"And we're still not really telling anyone," Sloan says.

"Though Will and Mac know," Don concedes.

"And Charlie knows," Sloan adds. "But we're not announcing it; we're not making a big deal about it."

"It's a boy," Tess announces, her torso swinging into the room.

"There's no way to tell," Maggie says quickly. God. "Not right now, it's too early to know, Tess." He groans.

Tess cocks her head. "Kate Middleton's baby. Is a boy." She looks at Sloan. "Are you pregnant?"

"What?" Sloan sputters. "No. That's … that's crazy." She tries to make a girlfriend, please face and fails miserably.

"Oh my god, you're totally pregnant," Tess grins. "Congratulations!"

"Right, thanks. But we're not —"

"Did you tell them?" Gary slides in. "Because I bet boy and Neal bet girl, so pay up, Sampat. You owe me ten bucks."

"I am never betting on anything related to infants again," Neal groans as he pulls out his wallet.

"Yes, and guess what? Sloan has news too!" Tess says.

"I told you this would happen," Sloan accuses him, flustered. He shrugs and raises his hands— the train's left the station.

"Are you pregnant?" Gary looks at her, honing in on her chest. "Yeah, you're definitely pregnant. I knew it. Congrats!"

"Eyes up, Cooper," Don says, irritated.

"Thanks, but please — we're … not saying anything," Sloan says.

"Seriously," Don says. "Nothing."

"An ACN baby, though," Maggie says, bobbing side to side and nearly frenetic with excitement. "Oh my god. This kid will be adorable. Well, as long as it doesn't get Don's ears."

"My ears are fine," he protests. Why do his ears get so much flack?

"Is anyone here covering the fucking news?" Charlie bellows from the newsroom.

"We should get back to work," Neal says. "Can we take you guys out tonight? After Right Now? To celebrate?"

Sloan takes a deep breath. "Honestly, that's a little late for me. Why don't we do a lunch in a few days?" she volunteers.

It's a bit of a crazy day. He tells Elliot, so he doesn't have to hear it through the grapevine, and he gets choked up and speechless, which is kind of awkward, so they hug in a very manly fashion. Sloan's not scheduled to appear on News Night or Right Now, so she heads home after Starting Line, texting him that she's taking the dog home. He hasn't seen her since she told the staff, and he's a little worried.

She's curled up asleep when he gets home, and he slides into bed behind her, running his hand down her stomach. Even though it's literally the tiniest hint of what's to come, he's in awe of the small bump.

She shifts. "Hey," she whispers. "I didn't catch the show. How did it go?"

"Went fine," he shrugs.

"Good," she says, blinking awake. As she focuses on him, she asks, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says. She throws him a look before kicking him lightly. "Ow," he says.

"Don't mess with me. I'm pregnant. I have a sixth sense. What's wrong?"

"Everything's fine," he says. "I just … You're ok? With everything?"

To her credit, she doesn't dodge or swerve. "The pregnancy? No. I'm a little terrified. I'm excited, but I'm terrified. Aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," he says, because how could they not be terrified? "But we're almost to three months. I don't think we should rent out a skywriting plane, but I think we should tell our friends. And at some point in the future — October, maybe — I think you should say something on air. The speculation's going to drive itself after a bit, and that's going to lead to more attention. Which is the exact opposite of what you want to happen."

She flops onto her back. "I don't like being out of control," she confesses, like it's a furtive, dark secret.

He laughs. "I hadn't noticed," he teases.

"My body is slowly being taken over and doing this against my will. I'm not a control freak!" she protests, a hint of whine in her voice.

"No, you're not," he says, because that's true. "But you're an economist. You take calculated risks. You can't calculate this one, so it's bugging you."

She turns to him, surprised but a little irritated, he thinks. "Yes. Fine. I'm transparent."

"Hey," he says. "I think I know you better than the average bear."

"I know it's a small risk of something going wrong, but it's still there," she says. "And … I don't know, coupled with having to tell people and answer questions that would be considered seriously inappropriate under any other circumstances —"

"I get it, I do," he says. "I know we're going to agree to disagree about whether the odds of something going wrong are statistically significant or not since I'm basing my opinion on gut and optimism and not a computer model built by some guy with eight PhDs, but will you at least trust me on the media strategy since I am, you know, a well-respected executive producer on a decently rated cable-news show? And if you can't, can you at least tell me what I can do to be helpful? Because you're stressing yourself out a lot about this, and I'd like to at least be helpful."

She smiles, as if she's realizing that she's releasing a burden, and he realizes he should have said this weeks ago. Idiot. "Alright, I'll take your word for the media strategy, Mr. Well-Respected-Executive-Producer. I still get to be terrified, though, right?"

"As long as you're also excited," he says.

"Well that," she says, kissing him, "Goes without," kiss, "saying."

He holds her there a little longer, a kiss that doesn't start something but rather seals something. She moves under him slowly, languidly, positioning them for a round of lazy, content sex. He realizes, not for the first time, that he loves this, the way they can so casually and so confidently transition between emotional and physical intimacy. Not for the first time, he's awed that out of that, they've created something that will someday soon be a baby. For the first time, as his lips flutter over her tiny belly, he hears her whimper, then smile. They'll be alright.

So, thoughts on my slightly all-over-the-map chapter? Trust me, reviews are much appreciated and spur inspiration.


	12. I'll be the one who stays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...hi (please don't throw things). My apologies for my general terribleness — at writing, but especially at following up on reviews. I'm still working on this (I, naturally, have the last two written! Points?) and on TTF, and very much appreciate your continued eyes and brains. I am now officially out of school for forever and ever, and am looking forward for a relaxing summer that will hopefully get writing done, followed by a fall full of inspiration in the form of a new season.
> 
> So if you're still reading this, please let me know! I super appreciate the reviews, and will respond to them - when it's no longer 1 a.m. on a work night. And if it makes up for it, this is incredibly cheesy (not all of them will be. Just most of them.)
> 
> Lyrics from Smashing, by, of course, RLM.
> 
> ~Jo

May

She's getting prepped for News Night when Don pops his head in. "You remember when we discussed going to a beach over Memorial Day?"

She perks up. "Yeah?" she replies, images of Miami and mojitos dancing in her head.

"What do you think about Cape May?" he asks.

"Cape May, as in New Jersey, Cape May?" she asks, confused, then immediately puts it together. "Cape May, where your family has a house and goes every summer, Cape May?"

He stops, momentarily derailed by her excellent, near-didactic memory. "Yup, that one," he finally says.

She leans back. "You want to spend two days with your family in Cape May? Think of the bikinis I could wear if we went to, say, Miami."

He smiles. "Three days, actually. My mom wants to meet you in person. She and Michael invited us down." She's talked on the phone with his mom a few times, as they've gotten progressively more serious, and she met his brother last month, but still. This is A Step.

"She wants to meet me for three days? We can't start with lunch in New York?"

"It's Memorial Day, we'll grill, she thinks I haven't had a vacation in four years …"

"You haven't had a vacation in four years."

"And neither have you," he points out.

She's not really in a position to say no. "Is there where you want to go then? With our first three days off in forever? Our last three days off in the foreseeable future?" He shrugs a little. "I'm serious. Do you want — do you want us — to go?" And by that, she of course means, do you want me to go?

"Yeah," he finally says. "I would like you to meet my mom in person. If you don't want to do three days we can go down for a lunch—"

"No, it's fine," she says, even though three days sounds completely stressful compared to the two dinners she's subjected him to with her parents. "Is your mom, um, …"

"Um what?"

"Is your mom going to be … old-fashioned … about sleeping arrangements?"

"What? Oh. God. No."

"Thank God for small favors," she mutters. Not that she's sure she's going to be having any sex with him there. She has to see how big the house is first.

"She's going to like you," he says unexpectedly. "She likes you already."

She smiles slightly. "Yeah. Because one can ascertain that based on two five-minute phone conversations." They had been accidental, as well; within a few minutes, his mother had simply sighed and asked for Don.

"And she's heard about you from Mitch. And she watches your show."

"Well, I love all my regular viewers," she says.

"And, hey, Mitch and the kids will be there too, it sounds like. So there'll be plenty of buffers. They're cute, we'll make them do cute-kid shit."

She stares, because that sounds even more stressful. "So we've got your mom, your stepdad, your brother, your sister-in-law, your niece, and your two nephews? Just so I'm clear. The step-siblings? Cousins? Porny uncles?"

"Just immediate family," he smiles. "I haven't been down there in forever. It's a big house. Right on the beach. We'll swim, there's a few restaurants, a nice bookshop, we can play tennis … It'll be a good time."

"Counting on it, mister," she smiles, and holds up her script. "I gotta go talk to Kenzie."

"Just so I'm clear, you're going to talk to her about actual, ACN stuff and not freak out?" he says.

She leans forward to peck his lips. "Eighty percent ACN, twenty percent freakout," she assures him.

Three weeks later, when it's finally time to drive down, those ratios would be flipped. A lot of that is simply nerves, but they — she and Don — also had A Talk late one night, where they kind of decided to get married. Soon. (Soonish.) So if this thing, this meet-his-mom thing, goes badly, she's screwed. For many, many years.

"I don't understand this desire to drive down tonight," Kenzie sighs, next to her, as they wait in Hang Chew's for Don to wrap up.

"If we leave at midnight, it's still a three-hour drive. But if we leave at 10 in the morning on Memorial Day weekend, it's a six-hour drive. We would kill each other in the car for that long."

"And to think you're at the stage where you meet his mom," Kenzie remarks. "Cheers." She holds up her glass, and Sloan clinks it with water, since she fully expects to drive for at least an hour.

Don takes one look at her, though, and won't give her the keys. At all. She admits she's had a few late nights but it's not nearly as dire as he thinks, so they get into a minor argument about him trying to be macho, which he counters (rightfully) with the point that he actually knows where the house is. She drifts off somewhere near Toms River, and he shakes her awake when they arrive. It's past two in the morning, so the colonial is cloaked in shadows, but she can tell it's pretty large, and close to the water — she can hear the waves breaking not too far away. He fishes the spare key out of the old-fashioned, false-bottomed mailbox nailed to the left of the door, and she quietly follows him up the stairs. "This is us," he mutters, showing her into a room and closing the door before flipping on the lights. It's larger, very square, and plain-but-pretty: dated, shell-pink walls; lace curtains and brown mahogany furniture; a jar of yellow flowers on a dresser; blue sheets. She peeks out the window and is pleasantly surprising to see the ocean waves rolling in. There's a large closet (a seriously large closet), and she dumps her suitcase in there, grabs one of Don's old NYU shirts, and curls under the covers. The last thing she hears is Don settling in beside her.

She wakes up ridiculously early (it's a blessing and a curse) and it only takes one look at Don to recognize that he's still in a deep sleep and she shouldn't disturb him. She slips out from under his arms, changes into shorts and a cropped black Lululemon tank, and swipes the key on her way out.

A five-mile run is what she needs to alleviate the anxiety, and forty-five minutes later, she's rounding back to his block. She's approaching the house when she notices a figure — female, dark-haired, slightly older — sitting on the porch steps. Shit. She briefly contemplates doing another five miles. Instead she wipes her hands on her shorts (her teeny-tiny running shorts. Christ, Sabbith, you are better than this, she chides herself) and takes a deep breath. "Um. Hi," she says, approaching. "I'm sorry that this is the way —"

"Shit. Sloan. You're up early," his mother says, taking off her reading glasses. She's got a large coffee on one side and the New York Times in her hands, and Sloan thinks, wildly, that she would probably like this woman a lot if she wasn't dating her son and getting introduced while basically wearing underwear.

"Hi. Yeah," she smiles. "I woke up — I think it was the fresh air and lack of noise pollution," she tries for self-deprecation. "So I went on a run. I took Don's key. I hope that's OK."

"No. It's fine. Alison Gerson. It's lovely to finally meet you," she smiles back and extends a small hand. She has Don's curls and nose, and wiry, tan arms and legs but a thickish middle. She looks like she plays tennis every day — Sloan remembers Don mentioning she was the one who taught him to play. "Would you like coffee? I'll have to make more; I didn't think anyone else would be up for another hour and a half so I only made one cup. I can make more, though." She has an incredibly pleasant smile.

"No, that's fine —"

"No. I — I always see you with a coffee mug on TV; and, if you're dating Don I know you must like coffee. Go on, go get changed and I'll make coffee. We have three newspapers delivered. And we have pastries. I insist."

She isn't going to argue with someone who insisted, so Sloan just nods and heads upstairs. Don is still snoring, damn him, so she simply showers, waves a blow dryer over her hair until it's not dripping, and pulls on black jeans and a gray, peach and red colorblocked silk T-shirt from Anthropologie.

"Do you take anything in your coffee?" Alison asks as she enters the kitchen. It's clearly been redone since Don's childhood and is now a gorgeous and modern space: views straight out onto the beach, lots of concrete counter space and stainless-steel appliances, smoked-glass-fronted white cabinets that lifted up like garage doors. She likes the sparse aesthetic.

"Just black," she says, lightly dancing her knuckles on the island in a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm. She normally puts almond milk in her coffee, but she doesn't know if that's a thing outside New York, and feels like asking for it would be rude. She doesn't want to be the high-maintenance girlfriend even though she knows that's exactly what she is.

Alison cocks her head patiently. "Don said that you liked almond milk. So I bought some."

"Oh. Then yes, if you have it. That would be great."

"Excellent. There are pastries in in that cake stand. I like the Nutella croissant quite a lot; Melanie — you've met Melanie — got me quite addicted." Alison is crisp and businesslike, warm but distant. She's very soft-spoken and almost seems to fade into her own unoccupied kitchen, but Sloan supposes she must be stubborn and sarcastic; she raised Don, after all. "And I have the New York Times as well. Don tells me I'm ridiculous for getting print and I should just do it on the iPad he got me for Christmas, but I like doing the print version. Writing down the answers helps you solve the puzzle better than typing them in. Something about tactile intelligence; I read it in a magazine."

"You were an English teacher, right?"

Alison demures with a self-effacing smile. "Once upon a time. Before I had the boys. I taught in the Catholic high school. By the time they were in school we didn't need the money, so I volunteered as a librarian at their school. Now I tutor, twice a week. I just like the crossword. Would you like a section?"

Newspapers are essentially useless to Sloan — by the time they're on the doorstep, the news is at least four hours old — and the question just makes her fingers itch for her phone. Still she says, "Sure. Do you have the business section?"

"Of course. Saving it for you," Allison hands it over, examining the crossword as she chews the temple tip of her eyeglasses. "Which city is nicknamed the Gem City? Last letter N. Six letters."

"Uh, Dayton. Ohio," Sloan smiles. "I got sent there a couple years ago to report on the recession."

"Ah. Yes. Thank you," Alison says.

"You have a lovely home," Sloan says, unable to let the silence settle. "Thank you for letting us stay here."

"Thank you. We bought the place when the boys were little, and it was such a good getaway in the summer months. We'd just stay out here and the boys' father would join us on the weekends," she says, and Sloan feels terrible for even mentioning it, since she knows that Alison's husband — Don's dad — was probably staying in Philadelphia to cheat on her, and she knows that Alison probably knows she knows. "We'd leave straight from the field day at school and would have to buy school supplies on the way back into the city; that's how close we would cut it." She takes a tiny bite of her croissant. "So tell me about yourself, Sloan. Something my granddaughter hasn't shared with me." She stares expectantly at Sloan.

Sloan smiles, because Don's niece, Madison, talks more than most journalists Sloan knows. "There's probably not a lot left to tell then."

"Tell me about your family," she says.

Of course. "Three sisters, all younger. One's a principal in LA, one's in med school, one's in law school. My parents live in San Francisco; we were raised there and in Japan."

"Are you close with your family?" It's an incredibly forthright and personal question, but the two of them, despite not knowing each other, already have an incredibly personal relationship.

She lifts a shoulder. "I'm close with my parents," she says carefully. "My dad's an economist, so we're in the same field and can just nerd out with each other, and everyone else can back out of the room slowly. And my mother — she's Japanese, and she fits that stereotype, you know? The whole tiger mother, very opinionated, a little overinvolved, kind of a know-it-all, crazy-high expectations compared to every other mom in my high school — that's her. So we're close, of course."

"That sounds like a lot of pressure," Alison says skeptically.

"Oh! I mean, sure, yes, but a lot of it's just cultural. It's how Japanese parents view child-rearing, and especially since we spent several years in Tokyo … it's par for the course. I mean, yes, I know it's not the way most American parents are, and it's not necessarily something I would emulate with my own children, but it was nice to know how invested she was. Not that I would … Not that I want … I mean I don't know … Children. I don't know if I would, you know ..." she flails.

"And your sisters? Are you close?"

She pauses, and decides honesty is the best policy. "We're very busy, and we're very different people. But they're great, and I love it when we get together."

"Mitch and Don aren't particularly close," Alison muses. "Even growing up, they were just very different. I always wondered if it was different with girls. I guess not."

Maddie, thankfully, ambles into the kitchen then, looking even younger than eight in a Care Bear nightshirt, and squeals when she sees Sloan.

"Sloan! You came! Dad said you were coming with Uncle Don but I didn't believe him since he told Matt Santa was real even though he is not!" she squeaks, then runs in for a hug. "Grandma, did I tell you how Sloan ordered one kind of French toast —"

"And you ordered the other? Yes, Maddie Lou, you did," Alison smiles. "Now, what would you like for breakfast? You're first up, so your pick."

Within minutes, Don's entire family is up — minus Don, of course — is up. Alison utterly transforms, going from inscrutable doer of crosswords into a loving, loud field-marshal of a grandma. She's whipping up pancakes and arguing with Melanie that chocolate chips are absolutely appropriate on vacation and keeping Matt from using the ketchup from his home fries to fingerpaint the white cabinets. Madison is going through her entire tap routine from her dance recital for Sloan, who is getting peppered with questions about what it's like to be on TV from Don's stepdad Michael, when Don finally makes his appearance, his hair sticking up in seventeen different directions. She's almost embarrassed at how relieved she looks when he walks in.

"Hey," he says, striding over to kiss her good morning before saying anything to the rest of them. "Morning, everyone. Sorry I overslept."

"You had a late night," Alison excuses. "We're just happy you made it down safely. Both of you," she adds as an afterthought.

"And we were just getting the 4-1-1 from Sloan on what it's like to be a big TV star," Michael says. He's a twice-divorced cardiologist in his early 60s and has the bronzed, plasticky good looks and alimony payments to prove it.

Sloan smiles awkwardly at his remarks. "I promise you, 90 percent of it is just not sweating under the Klieg lights, and another eight percent is making sure your EP doesn't hate you."

"Quoting you on that," he grins. "Anyways, Ma, you're making pancakes? How do I get in on that action?"

It's a family-filled day — breakfast is followed by everyone heading out to the beach for a couple hours, followed by shopping downtown and lunch at A Ca Mia, followed by a trip to Alison and Michael's country club. She sticks close to Don, smiling widely, telling the appropriate funny, fawn-y stories, laughing when Mitch — whom she quite likes, even though he makes Don want to bang his head against a door repeatedly — give Don shit for things that happened twenty years ago. They break apart at the country club, and she goes golfing with Michael and Mitch while Don and his mom play tennis and Melanie takes the kids to the pool. Michael is a great golfer, unsurprisingly, while she and Mitch duel it out for second and the right to drive the golf cart. The kids wrap towels around themselves for the trip home, then fling themselves into the ocean as the adults light up the grill for dinner.

"Pretty good day, huh?" Don asks, stretching out, as they settle in for the evening. He picks up his copy of The Passage of Power, thumbs to where he'd left off.

"Mmmhmm," she hems as she flips to the first essay in Marilynne Robinson's new collection. Vacation means no economics books, Don was adamant.

"You don't think it was a pretty good day?" Don asks.

"No, it was a good day."

"Ok, because your tone says it was, at best, a fine day."

"No, Don, It was a great day!" she protests.

"And now it's down to mediocre. Come on. What went wrong? Was Michael a jerk when you guys were golfing? He seems like the type to get competitive," he's suddenly nervous and his eyes involuntarily slip into concerned puppy-dog territory.

"You want to talk competitive, Mr. I-Made-My-Boss's-Kid-Cry-at-Scrabble?" Her eyes flick to the door, which Don has thankfully shut, and she repeats, "It was a good day. It was fun. The ice cream was delicious. I'm just … I'm not entirely sure your mom likes me."

He shakes his head, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? Of course she did."

"I don't expect anyone to love or even like me, based on a first impression — I went to high school, after all — but it was just … she just seemed distant. Which, hey, I can get …"

"She wasn't distant."

"You weren't there, when we were the only two up. I know I'm bad with people —"

"For crying out loud, you're not bad with people. Would you quit saying that as an excuse to say whatever you want?"

"Sorry. I shouldn't've said anything, I'm sure it's just because it's the first time we're meeting and I'm just … I'd like to make a good impression," she admits. "Forget it."

"You and my mom are very different," he says. "She likes you, but you're very different."

"Ok …" she says uncertainly. "But I'd like her to like me. My parents love you."

"Well, I can't help my natural charisma," he jokes.

She shoves him. "Mean!"

"I was kidding. Obviously," he says. "She likes you. Mitch likes you and the kids like you and that's what she cares most about.

"That's not her actually liking me; that's not-hating."

"Look. When you found out your fiance was cheating on you. What did you do?"

She cocks her head. "I left him. You know this, Don."

"Exactly. A week before your 300-person wedding. You quit your job, you started completely over, you told him exactly where and how and when to fuck himself. My mom? She and my dad were never happy. She knew he was cheating on her, but she accepted it, thought it was the bargain she struck. She was a lot of things and she was a great mom, but she's not outspoken like you. She doesn't like to rock the boat. She doesn't like to admit when there's a problem. She just wants things to be outwardly smooth. She was stubborn, but mostly just to will things to be better. You're different."

She could accept that. "Ok. But that has nothing to do with whether or not she'll like me."

He sighed. "She will. She's excited that you're here, I promise. She was the one that invited you down. But you're … you. She just needs time to feel you out."

"What does that mean?" she asks, feeling helpless and idiotic.

"It means you're impressive." She scoffs. "I'm serious. You and your whole family … sometimes you don't realize how insanely intimidating all of you are. And she just needs to … get used to you. It's fine. I promise."

She exhales. "It doesn't help that you're a bit of a momma's boy," she smirks.

"Hey," he protests, tickling her lightly.

"I'm serious. Don't think I didn't notice you and Mitch being served crustless grilled cheeses before dinner."

He starts to nuzzle, then kiss, her neck, still tickling. "Move in with me?" he breathes between kisses.

"Not until you get over your weird aversion to eating sandwiches like an adult. I'm not cutting the crusts off for the rest of my life —"she breaks off what she is saying with a loud laugh, then clamps a hand over her mouth because they're at his mom's after all. He starts laughing then as he kisses his way down her sternum before finally moving her shirt.

She wakes early again the next morning, goes on a run again (in a much looser, longer shirt), but thankfully Maddie and Melanie are up by the time she makes it to the kitchen. They spend the day on the beach, grilling and playing football and volleyball. Don hovers, but manages to make it look halfway romantic: slinging his arm around her stomach, chasing her into the water. Sloan has to admit the whole day is pretty nice.

Monday morning, she wakes up early for another run, but it's windy and damp, so she grabs her laptop and two phones and heads out to the screened-in porch. Twenty minutes later, she's plowing through her email and plotting her her Tuesday show on the phone with her producer, Julia (who is still working despite the holiday), when Alison pops her head out. "Sloan would you like — oh," she says, startled by the site of her working. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry, Alison, one sec, I'm sorry; Julia, that sounds great, just type it up I'll look it back over on our drive back home," she hangs up quickly. "Sorry, just trying to get some work done when everyone's asleep."

"No, completely understood," Alison smiles thinly. "Would you like coffee? We still have some almond milk left and it's not going to get drunk otherwise."

"Uh, sure. Yes. That would be great. Would you … like to join me? Out here? The view is great." If you could get past the moody percolating weather. She shuts her computer, just to make her point. "Please. Sit. I'll get the coffee."

Alison gives her a strange look, but nods and sits. Sloan grabs the coffee and milk and sugar from the kitchen brings it back out on a tray. Alison prepares her drink precisely before linking her hands together. "So, Sloan, did you enjoy your visit?"

"Yes! I did. It was very nice to come down and meet everyone," Sloan smiles. "Thank you for having me."

"It was very nice to meet you. I get the feeling we may be seeing you down here a lot more."

She reddens. "I hope so, yes."

Alison purses her lips contemplatively. "What has Don told you about his father?"

Sloan's surprised. "A bit, yes. I, um, … I met Lily, last month, when she was up in New York with Mitch's family."

She nods. "Don will only have told you the terrible things about his father — and that list was long, let me be clear — but the two of them are outwardly a lot alike. They're loud, they're sharp, they're good at what they do. Both of them like to yell sometimes, but you'll never meet a harder worker or someone who feels more strongly that everything will fall apart the second they stop caring. Don's father was hard for a lot of reasons, but that was the hardest reason."

Sloan's pretty sure her probably-future-mother-in-law is telling her that her not-actually-fiance will cheat on her and have a second family in the next ten years. "Ok …," she finally says.

"But at heart, Don's more like me, and he's not … He's programmed not to trust. And to worry; to want to make things better. No matter what he does, he doesn't think it's good enough. It's made him very successful — fear can be a powerful motivator, don't you think? But it's made him vulnerable. He's so brash and so loud that sometimes he tricks you into missing the fact that he's vulnerable."

Sloan gets it, suddenly. "Don turned me down the first three times I asked him out."

Alison cocks her head. "Oh? I don't follow."

"Don and I … have known each other for three years. Or four. I honestly, I lose track. But the point is, I started at ACN right after having broken an engagement because I found out my fiance was cheating on me. The day we met, we ended up at drinks together, and the whole thing came out. I don't know if he remembers — I hold my liquor a lot better than he does, quite frankly — but I asked him out that night, after telling the whole story and taking his coat sleeve and using it as a tissue. He said no — he said he thought I needed time. Then he excused himself to go vomit." She wonders if this is actually Mom-appropriate, but Alison seems intrigued so she continues. "So we became friends. And he was a great friend. He listened; he told me not to call him; he pointed out when the guys I was dating were jerks. He had to do that a lot. He'd sit with me, on the floor of someone's office, and listen to me bitch, and moan, and make a poor choice, lather-rinse-repeat. And I wing-womaned him. We were better as friends, I thought. We … knew a lot about each other, by that point, and I thought we'd crossed into that zone, where, you know, you've become so close that the thought of dating is just repulsive. And then he started dating a woman we work with. Maggie. And they … were not good for each. For a lot of reasons, and neither of them are to blame, but it was very on-again, off-again, and they would both lead each other on and … It was not healthy. It was actually kind of terrible. And it kept going south, and he kept trying to fix it. Because he's Don and that's what he does, he fixes things. So he asked me what I thought about her moving in with him and I said it was terrible and, you know, told him why. And we were talking, and he asked why I was single. And I told him — not at first, and in my defense I thought I was about to take a job on Wall Street and we would become those former friends that you sometimes see in the grocery store and say you'll get drinks with but don't. So I told him that it was because he never asked me out. It was true; I told him I was interested way back when we first met, and he never made the move."

"He never mentioned this Maggie."

"She's nice, I promise, we're … weirdly, we're kind of friends with her. But after that, I decided to stay at ACN, and he decided to stay with Maggie, but it was on the rocks and it fell apart pretty quickly. I don't think either of them could do it any more. And then a few months later we were out, with friends at this bar we all go to after work, and … anyways, I asked him out again. And he said no, but we got to talking, about why and what and who we thought we deserved. And who would get to decide and what that would mean for our friendship. And then he finally asked me out, and now gets to claim that he started the relationship. Which is totally fair. But my point, with that incredibly long and potentially inappropriate story, is that I promise I know your son well enough to love him. And I know he doesn't think he gets to have nice things, a lot of the time. And that sometimes I have kind of the inverse problems, where I sometimes … I think I sometimes think I deserve whatever happens to me. The fiance … That took a lot out of me. And I think I'm lucky that it happened when it did, before the wedding, when we could both just walk away and never have to see each other again. But my point — again, sorry — is that I recognize that in Don. I promise, I do. And I hope that he keeps letting me in, keeps letting me see when he's … vulnerable, or worried, for a long time. I hope … maybe it's naive, but he makes me braver. And I hope I make him stronger."

Alison looks at her, hard, really looks at her and finally — she smiles.


	13. Simply Living Loving Quietly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, it's been a while since I updated, but luckily not a wait like last time! You'll also be happy to know that I completed two more chapters in this time, and wrote my favorite line, ever, in one of them ("You need to get off the fucking sword that you fell on from atop your high horse." I won't say to whom from who, though.) Alas, they're the last two chapters that will be posted, so it will be a while! But they're awesome and I can't wait.
> 
> I started this one after I wrote the second or third one-shot (whichever one is Sloan's perspective about the wedding.) But I couldn't find an angle or tension that I liked enough to finish it until recently. I'm pretty happy with the way the ending turns out, and I like where the characters took me here with their attitudes toward finances, responsibility, and marriage. There's another one that will deal with similar issues coming down the pike.

September

Married life, Don decides Monday morning, after 40 hours of experience, is pretty fucking awesome. He decides this after waking up to Sloan kissing his shoulder. "Morning," she murmurs, swinging a leg around him as he glides to consciousness.

They'd gotten a suite at the Peninsula after the wedding, and they'd stayed there the whole weekend. It's fucking swank. "Morning Mrs. Keefer," he says, and they both wrinkle their nose. "We don't have to get used to that."

"I'm Sloan Sabbith at work," she cautions. "And probably 95 percent of the time anywhere else."

"Fine by me," he says, because he honestly doesn't care. They haven't even talked about her changing her name; he assumed she wouldn't. Not that he fucking cares. They are married. It's … sacred all on its own, no title change necessary. He leans up to kiss her, then flips them over so she's under him, causing her to laugh.

Twenty minutes later, she checks her phone. Realizing it is dead, she plugs it in, then grabs her watch. "It's almost 8," she says. "I have to be in by 9 to prep."

"Do we have to?"

"Well no," she says. "But if I don't go in, there's dead air for an hour this afternoon. And if I go in alone, there's a pretty big chance that as soon I walk in, Kenzie's going to say something and make people clap, so it would be awkward. Plus this room is beginning to reek of sex, so you probably want to leave."

He sniffs. "You're right."

"Yeah. So we need to go."

They get ready and leisurely walk the mile to the office. His wedding band is cool against his hand and that makes him smile more. He sees a guy walking a dog, and decides that they should get one. He wonders when to run that by Sloan. He's pretty sure she'll say yes. She loves dogs. Married life is so fucking great. They're totally getting a dog.

She's jittery as they approach the building, so he slows them to a stop. "What's up?"

"So this is it," she says. "We walk in and we're married."

"Wait — that didn't happen when the clerk said, 'I now pronounce you husband and wife'?" he jokes.

"I mean it," she says. "We walk in, everyone knows, they clap, Will says something on his show, Elliot says something on his show, something gets picked up on Fishbowl-NYC, and we're married. We'll get tweeted congratulations; it might get into some magazine. We'll be married."

He kisses her. "I married you on Saturday. Right now, we're just going to work."

"You know, we still need to figure out where we're living," she says as they get onto the elevator.

He shrugs. "Your place is bigger; mine is closer to work."

"We need to just buy new, honestly," she says. "Mine will sell faster, so I think we should start out there, and put yours on the market. Once we find a place we both like, we'll put mine on the market as well."

He shrugs. "Sounds great." He's not particularly attached to his place or his furniture, and she's got the big financial brain. They're gonna buy a new place and turn it into their home.

The security guard congratulates them as they sign in. In the elevator, Mindy from the dayside says, "Congratulations! I saw it in the Times."

"Thanks," Don smiles, and turns to Sloan. "It was in the Times," he says, eyebrows up, faux-informing her. He probably should grab one of yesterday's copies.

"Maybe Charlie made the call," Sloan says, chewing the corner of her mouth. This is unexpected.

"When did you guys even get engaged?" Mindy smiles.

"Tuesday," Sloan supplies with a smile.

"And you got married on Saturday?"

"Yep!" Sloan says.

When they get off the elevator, he's a little taken aback by how much is happening. Mac had sent an email out Sunday afternoon announcing it(they couldn't stop her), so he was anticipating some congratulations, but Mac has also filled the entire newsroom with red, silver, and white balloons, put up an enormous sign that reads CONGRATULATIONS, and ordered about 1,000 cupcakes, which tower precariously on a pod of desks that's been cleared of deritrius. The newsroom is also packed — his entire team is in, and they don't normally come in until two, all of daytime news is there, Mac's team is there, people from the news desks are down from the twenty-seventh floor. There are a solid four hundred people there. Everyone stands, claps, and whoops, and they laugh and wave. He gives her an 'ohmigod' bugged-eyes look, because none of them expected this, and she shrugs, squeezes his arm and kisses his cheek.

He slips an arm around her and yells, "Thanks guys!"

"Speech!" Someone — Neal — yells from the back.

"What the hell about, Sampat?" he says back.

"Like when the hell did you propose?" Mike, his senior producer, yells back.

"Tuesdays, during the four o'clock," Sloan says, as everyone laughs. "No, really. And we just wanted to keep it very, very small, so we're sorry we didn't let anyone know. We didn't even tell Charlie till Friday, and he had to sign off on it for HR."

"Yeah, you're lucky I didn't fire one of you," Charlie says. Please. He'd had tears in his eyes.

"But — thanks so much for this," Sloan says, smiling, and he watches people munch cupcakes.

"Honeymoon?" Someone (Tess maybe?) yells.

"Not till the spring," Sloan says. "Things around here need to calm down first. But we will be taking at least two weeks."

"And we'll be in Thailand on a beach, so seriously: Don't email us. I mean it. Don't email us. Please. Don't. Email. Us." Seriously, though. They're unsyncing their iPhones.

"Ladies and gentlemen, do you recognize this man?" Charlie laughs.

They circulate for a few minutes, then Charlie, Elliot, Mac, and Julia — Sloan's new EP, who is much better than Zane — pull them into Will's office. Mac has not had a good look at either ring, so she has Sloan's left hand in a vice grip as they talk.

"We need to talk about how you two want to release this," Charlie says without preamble. "We're having the PR people put together a statement that will be released after Sloan's 2 o'clock."

"Send me the language," he says. "I want to look it over."

"Don't say we got married at City Hall," Sloan says. "That will make it sound like I'm pregnant and I really don't want photos of my stomach in TMI for the next six months."

"You know, it does kind of sound like you're pregnant," Mac says. "Dating for ten months, engaged for four days …."

"The Times announcement says you were married at City Hall," Charlie supplies. "And it's been picked up in a few blogs. Grantland wrote you up in Wedded Blitz!. You won this week. Thirty-nine points. Practically unheard-of, according to Sophie."

"Seriously? Also: about the Times. Who sent that in? And I'm not. Pregnant, that is," Sloan says. "Charlie, can you tell TMI that?"

"I can't tell them anything," he laughs.

"You'll have good-looking kids," Elliot says. "As long as they don't get Don's ears."

"Yes. In a few years. Not seven months," Sloan says. "And I like his ears," she tugs one affectionately. "Wait. Does this mean I have to say something about it? Or can, you know, we just send out the announcement? Let's just send out an announcement. Twitter. Let's use Twitter. I'll tweet a photo of the ring and a quote from The Princess Bride. Ooh! That's fun, right?" He's proud of her increasing movie knowledge.

"I'm congratulating you two at ten," Elliot throws in.

"And I'm going to engage you in some witty banter about it during your segment," Will says.

"Fine. I'll put together a statement and I'll say something at the end of the show."

"You're like, the worst newlywed," Don jokes, because he knows she does not like speaking about herself. She gets flustered.

"I get flustered!" she says. "Just write me flattering things about you, and I'll say them."

The two of them are an incredibly efficient team — at 11, despite her show prep, Sloan shows up to explain finances before she calls a realtor. "I'd like to put the offer down as soon as possible, since it'll be 30 days until closing," she explains, after outlining how much they'll make from the sale of their apartments, how much she has set aside specifically for buying a bigger place (she seems to have pockets of money stashed all over the place), what they both have saved, the wedding gifts her parents and his mom are giving them, and what a reasonable mortgage is, based on their salaries (he practically gags at the number). "So we should probably talk what kind of place we want, before I call her."

"Pet friendly," he says, automatically, and she wrinkles her nose.

"You want to get a cat?" she asks. She doesn't like cats. Mostly, she's paranoid that they do not like her.

"A dog," he corrects.

Her face rises a bit at first, but then falls. "There's no way we have time for a dog, pal."

"Sure we do," he says.

"With our 16-hour work days?"

"One of us needs to be at work those hours. I can work from home until … noon, probably, and you can go home in between finishing the four o'clock and Will's show if you have to. Hell, people bring their dogs into work all the time; we both have offices. Besides," he points out, "if we're paying … that ... for a mortgage, we can shell out a few extra hundred for a dog walker if we really have to."

"Have you ever owned a dog before?"

"No, but I haven't been married before, and giving that a whirl has been going pretty well."

"We test-ran a marriage. We can't test run a dog."

"But isn't this one cute?" Don says, spinning around his laptop to show her a collie-golden retriever mix.

She sticks her lower lip out, wavering. "Pet-friendly. Doesn't mean we get a dog, we just have the option open."

"His name is Horace," Don says. "Good name for a dog, no?"

"If we get a dog we're naming it Milton."

He laughs, then kisses her, because there is no way that name is going to happen. "Let's find the apartment first, then the puppy, then decide on his name. What else is on your short list for a place?"

"Upper West Side, for work and Columbia. Three bedrooms, so we can have a guest room and an office to start with."

"Why three?" he asks, remembering their discussions about one or two kids.

"The housing market's going to dip in the next three years, and we're both up for new salaries within twelve months. A three-bedroom is always going to trend up. We should save now and buy bigger later," she says. "Ok. Close to the park, parking nearby, a functional kitchen we don't need to renovate. Oh! I found out who put it in the Times, by the way," she says chirpily. "It won't surprise you at all. Guess."

He thinks for a minute, then gets it. "Your mother." It makes perfect sense.

She smirks. "Of course it's my mother," she rolls her eyes. She holds up her phone. "But it's good for announcement purposes. Chelsea and Hillary texted me congratulations," she pulls a face. "Maybe we should've invited Chelsea at least?"

"Can I say your family friendship with the Clintons is beyond surreally weird?"

She shrugs. "Chelsea and I had sleepovers back when we had braces, went to college a few towns apart, and now live in the same city. That's not weird," her phone beeps. "Ooh. Timothy Geithner says congrats, too." She texts something back to the Treasury Secretary. "I'm surprised he forgave me."

"You sent him those great cufflinks with flames on them. I don't see how he could not."

"Those were pretty freaking awesome," she agrees. "Alright. I'm calling the realtor and then I'm going to go on my show and banter stupidly about getting married," she huffs a bit.

He raises his eyebrow. "Look, I get you want private, and I get that you hate talking about yourself. If you don't want to do anything, I don't care. We're married. That's all I could ever want. I don't need people to know to make it more real. I mean, I could should it from the rooftops but I have absolutely no need to," He's not offended that she doesn't like the publicity-seeking aspect of her job. He hopes that's clear.

"No, I do. I want to," she sighs. "I want to. It just feels weird, that's all."

"Alright then. You want me to watch?" he asks. Before they started dating, when she was first at ACN, he was usually be the one to push her to connect more with her viewers — tweet stuff from behind the scenes, smile a certain way, reveal her personality on-air strategically, do interviews with other journalists to raise her profile, attend the right parties and get photographed there. By the time they got together, she'd been prodded enough and become comfortable enough that she knew how to manage her own brand pretty effectively (Sloan never liked to be bad at anything, and this was no exception). But it was still strategic. The most personal thing she ever revealed were what books she was reading, and this was big for her.

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. "You don't watch?"

"I mean, it's on. But, like, from behind the camera, watch?"

She bites her lip. "Honestly …"

"You'll get flustered."

"I'll get flustered," she confirms, cocking her head and raising her eyebrow. "I should go call the realtor. We'll probably have to meet with her this weekend to list your place."

"Put it in my calendar," he says, shuffling his papers. She kisses him lightly, then heads out.

He doesn't see her before her show, and since ACN is always on in the background, he doesn't notice it's her show until 2:25 and she's bantering with Jamie, the Wall Street correspondent, who Julia has thoughtfully brought into the studio (his producer-brain applauds it, because it's a nice touch, to have her gab about it with a girlfriend).

"So, Sloan, I read in the New York Times that you had a pretty eventful weekend," Jamie says as her segment wraps up.

"Wait, the completely awesome manicure I had ended up in there?" she jokes. At Jamie's raised eyebrows, TV-Sloan goes, "In all seriousness, yes. It was a pretty great weekend. I got married on Saturday."

Jamie gasps on cue. "Congratulations! That is so exciting. And you kept that pretty well under wraps."

"Yes — Don, my, well, I guess, husband," she gives her little TV, ain't-that-ironic chuckle, and a quirk of her lips, "and I wanted something very small. So it was us, our families, and maybe twelve friends at New York City Hall. But it landed in the New York Times and the ACN staff bought about 1,000 cupcakes — which I hope you got a chance to try, they were fantastic — so cat's out of the bag," she smiles. "But in all honesty, it was lovely and exactly what we wanted and I … I couldn't be happier," she half-shrugs, a crooked, real-Sloan smile on her face.

The rest of the day passes in a whirlwind. Will gives a very nice blessing on his show, and Elliot makes a brief, humbling mention as they're closing out his. Sloan spends the entirety of his show sitting in the control room showing him photos of apartments to check out, and it's so fucking perfect that he wouldn't mind getting married once a week or so. But the best part is when they're done, Sloan hops up and says, "Ready to go home?"

She's said it before, and she'll say it again, but he doesn't think it will ever feel quite this good.

Since they're not having a honeymoon, they apparently don't get a honeymoon phase. They "stage" his apartment for sale, which basically means they move most of his stuff to her place. Then they realize her one-bedroom modernist loft is way too full, so they rent a storage unit and schlep everything extra out to New Jersey. They look at every available mid-sized apartment, duplex, or townhouse on the Upper West, but they're pretty interchangeable: Good but not great; okay view; one room too small and/or windowless. It's so desperate they look at a townhouse in Brooklyn. There's also sex (lots and lots of sex) and the ongoing fallout from Genoa — lawyers and meetings and more lawyers. The two balance each other out, but barely. And Sloan is probably more stressed than he is, which is saying something.

He's leaving a particularly stressful meeting with Reese and Charlie and the in-house counsel about the fact that they're bringing in a new lawyer — some First Amendment hotshot that Mrs. Lansing used to babysit — when Sloan practically accosts him. "Want to hear something good?" She seems overwhelmingly relieved.

"Yes. Please."

"I think I found our apartment."

The next Saturday is one of those ridiculously perfect late-October New York days that only happen twice a year, and they get up at nine and head way uptown to look at this place. "Ta-da!" she says, as they walk up. "I love the building. What do you think?" The lobby of the gray-stone building is all Art Deco, wrought-iron embellishments on stained-glass windows and hexagonal tiles in the floor. The 14th-floor corner unit has three bedrooms, 2,200 square feet, stunning views of the bridge on one side, and a tucked-in terrace on the other (if you twist and peak, you can see the park four blocks away). Sloan's right; it's pretty perfect.

But ... it hasn't been renovated since the late 80s. The living room and dining room are fine, even if the floors are a little scuffed, but the kitchen is orange, the bathrooms are pink, and the bedrooms have a ridiculous shag carpet and no space for Sloan's shoes. And everything is going to need paint. And Elliot likened a bathroom renovation to Vietnam, once. He's not entirely convinced.

"It's a little, um —" he starts.

"It is a little dated, yes," Lila, their realtor, concedes.

"Dated? It looks like something from The Brady Bunch."

"It's really only the kitchen — and that carpet — which isn't hard to do," Sloan says. "And some paint. And that bathroom. And you said when you proposed that you wanted to redo a kitchen with me. This is it."

"Yeah, but you had not needing a renovation on the top of your list for an apartment. And if we're going to move in a couple years is it worth the money?"

She hums and looks upwards. "This is a great neighborhood, so anything we put in is going to massively help any sale. And this place … it has personality. And good bones. And we're not going to get this space, at this price, without any renovation."

All of those things are true, and if Sloan says they can afford it, they can afford it. They've taken a lot of hits lately and he just wants a win. He turns to Lila, "Alright. What do we need to sign?"

There's some brief discussion about staying in Sloan's apartment until the renovations are done, but Sandy effectively ends that discussion for them. Their move-in plan is almost derailed by Dantana's attempt to sue him for the dumbass job recommendation, but Sloan gets that thrown out two hours after it's filed. And so, less than two months after they get married, they move into their home, with essentially no furniture except what's at his place that she deems "keepable" (spoiler alert: it's not much). Sloan decides that, since so much of the apartment will get overhauled, they don't need to unpack more than the bare necessities. This means that moving day, in and of itself, is an absolute breeze. They drink wine on the floor of the crappy kitchen and end up having sex on the godawful orange counters.

"Do you like the brown-and-white mosaic tile, or the black and white pattern? It's more traditional, but how traditional do we want to go?" Sloan asks a week later as she's waiting for him to finish up Elliot's show. "Or should we just stick with wood?" Sloan's decided not to hire a decorator, which is great since it saves money, but it means that Don is subjected to books upon books of tile patterns and paint swatches and wood samples. And his opinion is then asked.

"Uh," he says. "The rest of the apartment is pretty traditional, right? And we're keeping the built-in bookshelves and you want to do that … subway tile on the … backsplash, so maybe the more traditional one?" In his ear, Elliot laughs so hard he starts coughing.

"You don't think it would clash with the dark wood cabinets, if we went that route?"

"I didn't think that was a route … All of the books you showed me have white cabinets."

"Do you like the white cabinets?"

"Anything is better than the orange."

"That's obviously true. But do you like white? This is important."

"I — Sloan, the show?"

"Riiiiight," she nods, flipping through the book. "Of course, sorry."

"No, no worries," he says. "Elliot, 30 seconds to commercial."

She's still flipping through the books when they're back and Elliot starts talking about a typhoon in the Philippines when Sloan says, "Glass or stainless steel cabinet fixtures?"

He stares at the monitors and decides he has fifteen seconds. "Uh, lemme see?" She holds up two pictures and he replies, "Stainless steel."

"Good," she says, like there's a right answer, circling one of them. "What do you think we should do about those maids' quarters? We could make it a mudroom, or knock down the walls and make it a breakfast nook? Or maybe both, do you think there's room?"

"Elliot, next up is the guy from State, make sure to ask him about China," he flips the mic down. "Sloan, honey … can we talk about this when I'm not producing a show?"

She sighs, then gathers up her things. "I'll be in your office pricing washers and dryers, oh unreasonable husband of mine."

"Thank you," he says, giving her a quick kiss as she leaves.

He finds her Pinning things in his office after the show. Pinterest is absolutely the worst website in the world, he has discovered. "Someone did a spread on Kate Spade's apartment and we're totally stealing the bathroom. I'm thinking classic white clawfoot, but with a glass cage so it's also a shower. And bone-colored tiles on the walls. And the sage-green towels that you really like."

This sounds insane, and he didn't know he liked the sage-green towels. "Sure," he says. "Can we make it bigger? That's really the only thing I care about."

"Of course," she says, looping her arm into his. "Tomorrow, we need to go to the Restoration Hardware to look at the knobs."

"We have the staff meeting at 11." They're discussing the deposition schedule with Jerry Fucking Dantana's lawyers.

"Yeah, we'll go beforehand. The Broadway location opens at nine. We need to go exactly at nine because I want to go to Manhattan Center for Kitchen and Bath on our way in too."

"I thought we said the stainless steel knobs?"

She sighs. "Oh, young grasshopper. But which ones? Also, I think we need to replace the floors throughout the apartment. And I think you were absolutely right about wood in the kitchen."

"How are we affording this? And how long is this gonna take?" Sloan just laughs maniacally and starts talking about the different types of wood they could select for the floor.

He doesn't know how, but they come up with a plan (he thinks he gives tons of input on the cabinets, but he's honestly not sure). It'll be herringbone floors, dark wood glass-front cabinets with stainless-steel knobs, bone-white subway tile, marble countertops, a breakfast nook and mudroom with a standing washer and dryer, which they'll somehow accomplish by converting the maid's-quarters bathroom as well. They'll be adding an island with a hidden microwave and somehow opening up the kitchen so that it flows into the living room and there's something about the cabinets and countertops is especially impressive (maybe they reserve heat or something? Or are from some famous Italian quarry? He's absolutely lost. All he knows is that walls are going to move.). It looks nice and all, but he has no idea why Sloan and Mac are so over-the-moon obsessed about the whole remodel. Any time he turns in the newsroom, they're looking at swatches or wedding stuff for Mac. There's something … tense … about her in general that he can't quite pinpoint, even though on Election Night, she'd insisted she was getting better.

The next week the contractors come to start the project, first with the bathroom and then the kitchen. He's not sure if it's normal, but the contractors start at 7 in the morning and go until five. Which would be great — well not great, but much more bearable — if he went to bed before one on a normal day. And it would be infinitely better if he had remembered it before the clanging woke him up.

"Hey, uh, you guys getting started?" he asks as he stumbles out of his bedroom.

"Yeah. Your wife gave us the keys yesterday?" One of the three guys — who is holding a fucking sledgehammer — says.

"Yeah, yeah, she mentioned that. So, uh, I don't have a shower right now?" he signals to the shambling pile of porcelain where the pink bathtub once stood.

The guy shakes his head. "Nope. We'll probably have the new shower installed by next Wednesday. We got to reroute some of the plumbing."

"It's Monday."

"Yeah. We got to reroute the a bunch of the plumbing. We're also getting started on your kitchen tomorrow — you guys need to pack up the dishes."

Since he can't shower at the house and Sloan is already at ACN, he packs stuff to wear and heads downtown. He finds Sloan jogging on a treadmill. "Hi honey," he calls across the gym.

"Don," she slows the machine — she knows he only uses 'honey' when stressed or pissed. "You know where the gym is?"

"I had to find it, since I realized this morning that having our bathroom redone means that we can no longer shower."

"Oh," she says. "Yes, that makes sense."

"We have five degrees from some pretty decent schools between us —"

"NYU? Really?" she jibes.

"OK, Berkeley is a state school, Sabbith, don't get cocky. How did we not know that we wouldn't have a shower for two weeks?"

"A week and two days. I guess we forgot? It's been stressful."

"And they're going to start tearing up the kitchen. They want us to pack the dishes tonight, by the way. The dishes we just unpacked like, last week. How are we going to eat for the next six weeks?"

"We didn't unpack all of them and we've cooked at home twice in our three weeks living there."

"I'm really not opposed to getting a hotel room for the next month. Or going back to Charlie's studio."

"That's ridiculous. We have showers here that we can use, and we barely ever cook. It's a waste of money; we can make it through."

"The hotel is a waste of money, but getting all the perfectly-fine floors replaced isn't?"

"One's an investment and one's a sunk cost. Why are you so angry with me? You signed all the papers too."

"Yeah, before I realized I didn't have a shower."

She points to the lockers as she dabs at her neck and chest with a towel. "Thattaway, buddy." She steps off the treadmill and stands chest-to-chest with him. "Think of this as our first married adventure. And besides, think how awesome it'll be to re-christen the kitchen when it's done."

That is certainly appealing.

"Dinner tonight?" he asks.

"I can't," she makes a face. "I need to go meet with the contractor after my four o'clock — you're welcome to come."

"I can't make it uptown that quickly," he says. "After Will's? We can do sushi in my office."

"I told Kenzie I'd help her knock people off the engagement-party invitation list that her mom sent after the show."

"Alright then," he says. "I'll see you … sometime after my show then, probably."

"Don," she says, and he turns. "It'll be OK. This'll be over soon. I promise."

The ACN showers are absolutely disgusting — how does Sloan look decent all the time if she's using the showers regularly (oh. Hair and makeup and natural beautifulness. Right)? They're tiny and cold, even compared to the awful pink tub they just had sledgehammered. There's also something incredibly greasy about the ACN communal showers; no matter how much soap and shampoo he uses, he's not actually clean. When Elliot sees him, moist and unhappy and wrinkled, he bursts out laughing.

"I can hear you," Don sing-songs, annoyed, as he types some emails.

"You, um … This renovation suits you," Elliot says.

"You know, when I pictured the first three months of marriage, I absolutely saw meetings with lawyers every other day, showering in public restrooms, not being able to make a bowl of cereal in my kitchen, and barely seeing my wife," he grouses.

"It's a transition," Elliot says. "Dating is not the same as being married, even if you were living together. Which, oh, you weren't."

"We … basically lived together, ok? And did your transition include not being able to shower? Did it?"

"You and Sloan dated for ten months and planned a wedding in four days. Of course you two are doing an entire years' worth of stuff in a month."

"That's kind of sweet, thank you," Don says.

"Don't get used to it."

"On that note — Sloan's seemed OK to you, hasn't she?"

"Uh, sure? You married her. That's kind of your area of expertise."

"It's just … She's really into this apartment thing. She's gone off the deep end — redoing way more than we planned to, spending more money, she joined Pinterest and made me join ..."

"She's Sloan, but she's still a girl. And she got married and now she gets to play house and decorate everything. She'll go nuts; it's what women do."

"Yeah, no, it's still strange. It's Sloan."

"You could talk to your wife and ask her if anything's wrong?"

He just groans.

After that night's show, he finds Sloan and Mac drinking wine in Mac's office, huddled over a laptop. "Can I kidnap my bride?" he asks.

"Absolutely," Mac grins. "Thanks so much for the help with the vellum decision, Sloan."

"What the hell is vellum?" he asks as he helps Sloan shrug on her coat.

"For invitations? For the engagement party?"

"That sounds like an animal byproduct," he says, and the two women roll their eyes and sigh.

Later as they're both in bed (her: looking at a huge, square fabric book; him, reading This is how you Lose Her), he asks, "You liked our wedding, right?"

"Are you kidding? I loved our wedding."

"You didn't want something, I don't know, bigger and crazier? With vellum invitations?" She seems to be directing an immense amount of energy into crazy endeavors, and that's the only explanation he can come up with.

"God, no. Kenzie sounds miserable just with the engagement party. I loved our wedding, Don. It was perfect and us." She sounds convincing so he lets it drop. "Which fabric do you like? Ikat or chevron?" she asks, holding up two similar white-and-blue prints.

"What do you mean?"

"This one, or this one?"

"That one," he points to the one with a diamond pattern. The squiggles look too much like a boat's flag. "What is this for?"

"The chairs in the dining room."

"We're getting new chairs in our dining room?"

"Yes. My loft didn't have a dining room, and you got your dining room table from Craigslist."

"I didn't know we were getting those."

"Yeah. We also need a new couch, and a TV console for the living room. And stuff for the office. I'm thinking in the office, what if we do custom floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, then get a library ladder? We're going to need flat screens in there too, obviously. Will says at least four but I think that's excessive, given that we have two in the kitchen and another in the living room."

"OK," he puts the book down. "Do you think we're going a … little overboard? Especially because we still haven't sold your apartment?"

"My super said the building will be ready to go by mid-December, so we can list it and probably have it sold by January 1. And I'm predicting a seven percent boost due to the post-hurricane interest."

"Great," he says, and means it. "But custom bookshelves and chairs sound expensive, and we seem to be buying a lot of stuff."

"Yeah, because we bought a home. Our stuff doesn't work together, your couch was from Sears, and we have way more space now. And this place needed to be renovated — you hated that kitchen."

"Yeah, but you've kind of …"

"What?"

"Gone all Delta Burke —"

"Delta Burke?"

"You know, from the —"

"I know from the show. I too grew up in the 80s and had a mother. You're referencing the wrong Sugarbaker sister, and I didn't know whether I should tell you that or point out that, Don, we bought a house. An honest-to-god house."

"Yeah, we kind of spent a lot of money on it."

"Right, so we should also make it look nice. Since we did spend a lot of money on it."

"I just … I feel like we're going overboard. New kitchen, I get, but new dining room?"

"We don't have a current dining room!"

"I'm just saying, I think we can get nice things, decorate the apartment, with a couple trips to IKEA and Crate and Barrel. Hell, even Pottery Barn. You kind of have just —" he pantomimes took off — "you know."

She stares at him. "No, I don't know, because right now we're living among boxes, sleeping in a bed you bought in 2007 from IKEA and I am trying to turn this cardboard jungle in a home for us. And by the way, we are not buying anything from IKEA except for some basics; we are in our mid-thirties. This is our home, Don. We'll have friends over, our parents will come here, hell, one day we might have a kid and that kid will live here and we will take photos of that kid in every room. We need to make it nice."

"I'm not saying we don't need to, I'm saying — what's our budget?"

She makes a face. "That's a really simplistic way of looking at it. Money isn't the only thing to value here."

"Well, how much money do we plan on spending, Sloan?"

"It's better to think of it as an investment and as long as you're incurring good debt — low-interest mortgages from a bank, which we are —"

"That's for the renovations, I get that."

She squints in confusion. "We haven't even cracked a credit card on the rest of it yet."

"Right, I'm saying how much do you think we'll spend? To decorate?"

"Back of the envelope — not counting the bookshelves — probably 25 to 35 thousand. Maybe closer to fifty, since there are some long-term projects we'll need to complete too."

"On furniture? That's what the average American pulls yearly!"

"Don, we're not the average Americans — we make three-quarters of a million annually right now. Or are we not combining our salaries here?" she's suddenly serious. "We never actually discussed that. That's a lapse."

"Of course we are," he says, confused. He didn't know that was up for debate. He currently makes more than two-thirds of their combined income, but he didn't think that was a big deal. Or maybe it was to Sloan, because feminism? He's never sure when he's inadvertently trampling on her, or Mac's, or even Maggie's or Kendra's or Tess's or his female staff's rights as women.

"OK. Well. It's not insignificant, but it's within budget. We can use the money we make from selling my apartment. And our parents gave us wedding money that we can use here too, if you're worried. I was going to invest it though."

"I wanted to use that for a vacation."

"You don't want to spend fifty grand on furniture that would last years, but you would spend an entire, fairly significant, cash gift on a vacation, which is ephemeral? Seriously?"

"I'm saying we should at least talk about it!" he stares at her. "Listen. I obviously know that you will be handling our finances, for the rest of our lives, and I obviously think that you are, you know, more than qualified for it. But I think I should get a vote in how much we're spending, because that's ridiculous."

She cocks her head. "How much do you think a sofa costs? A good one?"

"I don't know. A thousand dollars?"

Sloan pales visibly. "You are joking, right?"

"Why would you spend more than a thousand dollars on a sofa!?"

"Because you're going to have it for years and years? How much do you think the sofa in my apartment — which you love — costs?"

He guesses. "Two thousand dollars?" Even that sounds insane.

"Seven. I paid seven thousand dollars."

His jaw drops. "We're keeping that sofa then."

"Fine!" she says. "We can put it in the office. With some non-custom bookshelves."

"Fine!" he says.

She tosses the book by her side of the bed with a light thump. "You know what? It's late, and we're both tired. I'm going to sleep."

He puts his book on the nightstand and flicks off the light. "That sounds like a great idea." He flips on his side to face her, but she flips away, and doesn't scoot close enough for him to wrap an arm around her. Alright then.

It takes them both a very long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, he's awoken by a bunch of banging in the kitchen area. Sloan's gone, unsurprisingly, so he sighs and pads out after her. He finds her sitting against the exposed wall where the cabinetry used to be before it was torn out. She's leaning against the sink console, which is still there though it doesn't get water, holding an empty glass. Her face is streaked with tears.

"We don't have any fucking water," she explains, shaking the glass. "I tried turning on the sink, then I remembered we don't have any fucking water."

"One sec," he says, taking her glass and going to the guest bath in the front hall. It's not particularly cold and they don't have a fridge, but it's something. "Here you go."

She blinks. "I should've thought of that. I'm sorry. I'm tired."

"It's OK," he says, sitting down next to her. She flops her head on his shoulder, and he instinctively moves his chin on top of her forehead to be a little closer to her. "It's been a really long fucking couple months."

"I'm sorry if I've gone overboard a little bit, about everything. It's just been … a fucking age of men with Genoa, and with everything at work so unstable I think I just wanted a … well something to focus on, but also something permanent."

"Hey," he says, moving an arm around her. "If you ever need to think of something permanent, this, us, is, alright? That's why I married you. The apartment — sure, fine, it's going to be ours for a long time. But we're permanent too."

She kisses his collarbone (he fucking loves when she does that). "You have a way with words," she says.

"That's why they pay me the big bucks," he says drolly. "And hey, I'm sorry that I haven't been as helpful as I should be with the furniture and everything. You're right, this is our home, and it should look nice. I still think we should be a little bit careful with money — not because we have to, just because we should — but if there's a couch as great as yours for more than a thousand dollars and you like it, we should buy it." He'd known from the first second he saw Sloan, when she'd been killing it in an Armani dress, that she had a pretty fucking high bar for how she looked and how her things looked. Part of it was she was a little high maintenance, part of it was that she was used to nice things, but a substantial portion was simply that she had high expectations, and was too competitive and ambitious to do anything poorly. Including decorating the apartment. "And I was thinking about the dining-room chairs. Both those patterns were a little too trendy. Maybe let's get the really good fabric, but in a plain color, and then get the fun patterns on the curtains?"

She smiles into his chin. "I like that," she says. "Sometime — probably this weekend — let's sit down and figure out everything we need to buy, and then figure out where we want to save and splurge. And we should probably just talk money in general, and work through combining our accounts. That's something people are supposed to do before they get married, and I think we just assumed that …"

"Since you're a financial genius and we make pretty good salaries that it wouldn't be an issue? Yeah, we did."

"Yeah," she swallows. "So we should do that."

"Sounds like a plan," he says, kissing the crown of her head softly. "You want to head into the office for showers?"

"What time is it?"

"My phone said 5:15, I think."

"Mmmm. I don't have to be in until 7, and I have a shot at 10 so I'll just have hair and makeup fix me. You want to get a little more sleep?"

That sounds heavenly. "Yes," he breathes out. She stands, abruptly, then helps him up. She doesn't let go of his hand as she walks back to the bedroom, and they flop on the bed. This time, she turns to face him, burying her nose in his chest, sliding her leg between his, and wrapping an arm around him. He wraps both arms around her waist and sinks into her smell as he closes his eyes.

Plenty continues to go wrong during the damn renovation — unsurprisingly, it takes four months, instead of six weeks, though he does finally get a fucking shower by the first week of December. Mac and Will's engagement-party planning and wedding and general and dramatic existence continue to occupy way more head space than Don ever wanted them to, and Genoa drags on until the spring. Other awful things — Sandy Hook, for one — happen, and there are long days and bad days and good days and hard days. But he and Sloan manage to sell her old place and eck out a pretty damn nice apartment in the process, one that (he thinks) reflects both their tastes and interests, and doesn't cost too-too much. On a warm night in late March, they finally unpack the last box and assemble the library ladder (he caved, and it's actually pretty fucking cool). Charlie had given them a case of ridiculously expensive Riesling from Mosel for the wedding, and they crack open a bottle and drink that and eat a smoked-fig and prosciutto pizza on the floor of the kick-ass new kitchen. Sloan is bizarrely adamant that housing milestones be celebrated with wine on the floor, though it's decidedly tougher with the puppy running around them.

"We did it," she says, clinking their wine glasses and shoving Clem's nose away from the pizza. "We officially have our first home."

"Third home," he corrects impulsively.

She squints. "You're counting ACN and what else in your dubious attempt at math?"

"Four then," he corrects himself, as she raises an eyebrow. "What? I consider any place that you and I are together. So your old place, my old place, ACN — they all count for me."

She beams. "Fourth home, then," she smiles and kisses him deeply. He responds, putting a hand at her lower back and dipping his tongue into her mouth and forgetting about the froufy, expensive pizza and wine. They make out for a second and just before it's about to really heat up, she puts a hand on his cheek and pulls back slightly. "Before we —" she kisses him — "get too far —" he kisses her — "I just want you to know —" she kisses him, but then pulls back more. "That —" kiss — "the last few months have been way —" kiss — "way more stressful than I thought they would be. And being married is a lot harder than I thought it would be — I figured, we basically lived together, we were clear about what we wanted, it would be the same as before. But it's not, and now I know it's not." He kisses her. "And I know it'll probably get harder. But I feel very, very lucky that you're the person I'm learning how to be married with."

She gives him too much being credit for being good with words, because she floored him there. He brushes her hair with his fingertips, before finally settling on — "Me too, Sloan. God, me too."

And it's that, more than any house or lawsuit or wedding band or whatever, it's that attitude, and that feeling, that is his something permanent.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! This one's a bit shorter than the last one :) I'd love to hear what y'all think — I know the last one was super long, but I hope these aren't getting irritating or too trite/cute or too much or whatever.

June

Don's surreptitiously stabbing himself in the thigh with a pen during a ratings meeting when he notices an email from Sloan on his laptop. So jealous of them! He clicks.

It's photos from her parents' recent vacation. They're at a resort, on a beach, in a hammock, toasting over a dinner — it looks gorgeous. And restful. And like the opposite of this hellacious meeting. He notices she's online, and double-clicks her name to open a chat box.

That looks amazing. Where are they?

Costa Rica.

God. I would give a pinky finger to be there and not here right now.

Just a pinky?

Well. The others are a little more useful.

Ha. Say the word, and I'm down for a beach vacation.

Let's do it.

Are you serious? We have work — remember that thing?

Yes. Dead serious.

He's now amped up. This is perfect. Work has been crazy since they started dating, and now that the stupid Genoa nonsense is buried under the sand and the primaries are over, there is suddenly time. They've met parents, so a vacation seems is a breeze. They can do this.

We have plenty of vacation before the election. Fourth of July week. Let's do it.

I don't know …

He finds the resort online and clicks through to check availability. Yessss.

They have rooms. And oh my god. Sloan. Look at this. He sends her a photo of the grilled fish at the restaurant.

You know what buttons to push. Let's do it. OK.

Really?

Yeah. Costa Rica! You should talk to Charlie first though.

Sure. I will absolutely do that.

Tickets and rooms are booked by the time the meeting is finished.

Charlie's not exactly thrilled when Don fills him in, but signs off on it. "You know, I liked the dating-in-secret phase of your relationship a lot better."

"And if you learned to knock you might be back in those blissful days."

"Would have come out sooner or later," Charlie grumbles. "You're both too happy." Don smiles. He is a lot happier these days.

"We're good to go," he tells Sloan later right after her show.

She perks up as she walks off the hot studio. "Really? For real?"

"Charlie signed off. Brianna will be covering for you."

"We should book before he changes his mind."

"Yeah, about that..." He says as he opens the door to her office. "Already done."

"You booked before talking to Charlie?" He shrugs and she laughs. "You're sneaky. I like it." She kisses him. "Now shoo. I have a lot of shopping to do."

"Move in with me?" he asks as he leaves.

"Not till you upgrade your closets to fit all my new clothes," she singsongs.

He puts up with a fair bit of whining from Elliot about the unexpected trip, and has to beg Mac a little bit to loan him Jim for the week of vacation. Once she gives him Jim, Mac does a "dance of joy and glee" (her wording) about the "big step" they're taking, which makes him roll his eyes — they're basically living together, they're clear on their next steps, and vacation is just an excuse to have sex at 11 am on a weekday. When he explains that, though, Mac looks at him like he's clueless. "You think meeting her parents is a bigger deal than spending nine days together with just each other, don't you?"

"Of course it is," he says.

Mac just laughs. "More important, maybe, but trust me, this is harder."

"Sloan and I talk all the time."

Mac just laughs and walks away, leaving him with an uneasy feeling.

But soon they're packed, and Sloan has made reservations for dinner and ziplining (he's skeptical but he'll try it) and snorkeling and volcano hiking and a couple's massage and a cooking class (which is extra-hilarious given that he can at least saute a pork chop while she has trouble boiling water), and they're all set to take a taxi after Sloan's four o'clock.

Until they get the call that their connecting flight from Miami to San Jose has been delayed due to a tropical storm in the Caribbean.

"So what? Let's just get down to Miami and then we'll get a flight," Sloan says sensibly as she monitors stocks one last time. "Look at how well Xerox is doing! Hello, lover, I want so much more of you," she intones in a deep voice.

"Flying to Miami and waiting for a flight is just tempting to wrath of the god high atop the thing," he argues back, ignoring her burgeoning relationship with an inanimate stock.

"It's delayed for two hours. We'll get a margarita in the terminal and wait. It's fine. You need to chill."

"If we spend the first night of our vacation sleeping in chairs in Miami International because we didn't rebook, you are only wearing bikinis for the next week."

She smirks. "Those are the only circumstances in which I can wear a bikini for the next week straight?"

His mouth goes dry. "Well, not the only one."

"Good answer."

He's waiting for her, bags in hand, as she wraps up her show, and despite Jim following them out the door so that Don can continue to give him orders for the show, they're en route to La Guardia by 4:37. Sloan changes into jeans and a navy T-shirt at the airport, and spends the entire flight sleeping on his shoulder. He manages to relax enough to read part of The Passage of Power.

Once they land, though, rain is slashing against the terminal windows. His phone buzzes to let him know the flight has gone from delayed to canceled, though American has thoughtfully rebooked them on a flight leaving at five P.M. the next day.

"Seriously?" He groans, smacking the iPhone against his forehead.

"Let's go talk to the counter," Sloan yawns. "Maybe there's something going out tonight that we can upgrade to. And you have miles, right?"

"Sure if there are flights," he says. "It's already nine and our flight was leaving at 9:30."

"Well, a six A.M. would get us in eleven hours before the one they've put us on, so we do have options." She stops as she stares at the rebooking line.

"Great. It'll be you and me and the rest of humanity for the next two hours. Do you still have that neck pillow packed because we're going to need it?" he asks. He's tired, and he just wants to be on the beach, and he can feel his temper creeping in.

"It'll be fine," Sloan says, patting his bicep. "Come on. Adventure!" She extends her hand for him, and he threads her fingers through him before kissing her knuckles.

Forty-five minutes later, they're still in line, but at least Right Now is on to distract him. Jim's doing an OK job, but he's telling Elliot to be more combative than is good for Elliot, and is keeping him too long in segments. Don doesn't even notice he's yelling at the TV until he's pulling out his phone to call Jim during a commercial break and Sloan grabs it from his hands. "You need to chill out," she says point-blank. "You're being all angry and persnickety and it's Day One of our vacation and Don, I swear to god I will kill you in our sleep by Tuesday if this continues."

"I'm not being persnickety!" he protests.

"Don, everyone in this line now knows what the hell you do for a living since you've been shouting, 'Go to break' and '30 seconds too long!' and 'What the hell are you doing!' at the TV for the last twenty minutes."

"I have not!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sloan says to the woman in front of them. "Hi, sorry. Has my boyfriend been disturbing you at all?"

"I wouldn't say disturbing, but you're definitely quite animated. Do you work with Elliot Hirsch?" She's tiny and older and looks like the type of person who would have a pet in her purse.

"I'm his executive producer, yes," he says, momentarily chastened.

"This is his first time taking a vacation since he started the job in 2009, and he's not very good at it. Thanks, though, and I apologize for him," Sloan smiles.

"No worries. Elliot's a cutie, you can tell him that. You look familiar, are you on TV too?"

"Only when I can't help it," Sloan smiles, then turns back to Don. "You need to go sit in the terminal. Away from me. And not by any other humans you might aggravate with the crazy and the shouting."

"I'm fine," he insists.

"Don."

"I'm serious! I'm … calm. I am Zen."

She gives him a doubtful look, then says, "You know what? Whatever. I am on vacation and enjoying myself, and you are not going to ruin that."

"I won't, because I am calm and Zen." Sloan just side-eyes him and pulls out her Blackberry for the wait.

"Move in with me?" he asks to lighten the mood.

She just laughs before pecking his cheek. "Only if you can get through this rebooking without completely losing it on the airline rep."

Needless to say, he doesn't win that one.

"He was combative," Don grouses as they settle into a row of seats. They'd managed to get a flight out at 5, which would get them into San Jose at 8, and Sloan's called the hotel to let them know of the change of plans.

"No, Don, he wasn't, you were," Sloan says, rooting around in her carry-on. "And it wasn't, you know …"

"What?"

"Nice. It wasn't nice! What the hell could he have done, Don? Stopped the rainstorm in Haiti? What the hell did you gain in that situation by telling him that you understood where Alec Baldwin was coming from? He's not a combative source, he's an underpaid airline rep who has to deal with people like you all day."

"He's definitely not underpaid; he's got pretty awesome union benefits," Don retorts.

"This is what I'm talking about!" she says. She finds her facewash and contact solution in her bag and stands. "You needed to let out some steam so you took it out on that poor guy. It was completely unnecessary. I don't want to hate you by the end of this vacation, OK? I'll be right back."

"Why would you hate me by the end of this vacation?" he asks blankly.

"Are you joking? Don, we've never spent this much time alone."

"We spend time alone all the time," he protests. "We work together, we basically live together, we're more together than any couple that isn't in high school."

"We spend two hours, tops, alone and awake every day. Most days it's closer 45 minutes and that includes meals. We're four hours into this vacation and I already want to kill you, because you've been nothing but a level-one asshat for the past two hours."

"Is this a thing? The first vacation?"

"Yes! Of course it's a thing!" she stares at him like he has three heads. "How have you gotten to thirty-four without realizing that traveling together is a thing?"

"OK, OK, I'm sorry, Sloan. I guess … I just want to be on a beach," he says, wondering if she's right and there's a high chance they'll drive each other nuts.

"So do I, but there's no way getting snippy with the airline rep or with an imaginary Jim is going to help that." She hesitates, then leans down to kiss him. "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back in ten."

By the time she's back, he's at least found a blanket for her in one of their bags. She smiles, then drapes it over both of them. "Tomorrow night, we're not-sleeping with a beachfront view," she promises sleepily, adjusting her hipster glasses and curling into his side. "Also, I'm not wearing a bra, if you want to feel me up," she whispers into his ear.

He laughs, then drops a kiss on her temple. "This is a great vacation already," he says, sneaking a hand up her shirt under the blanket and swiping the underside of her breast. "I really am sorry for yelling earlier."

"Just don't be surly," she mutters with a smirk.

They're in San Jose by 8, and it's already a sticky-warm day. After going through customs they hop a quick commuter flight to the Islita Airstrip. He's pretty sure the plane is staying in the air due to duct tape and a prayer, but whatever, it gets them there and Sloan stays busy pointing out how green everything below them is. It's true; the entire place is lush and remote and perfect. The hotel picks them up at the airport and they are finally, mercifully, in their room by 11.

"So I'm thinking we nap until the surfing lesson at three?" he asks, flopping onto the bed. God this is heavenly.

"Or we could not," Sloan suggests, emerging from the bathroom and taking off her shirt.

"Or we could not," he says, leaning on his elbows, suddenly awake again. She smiles as she straddles him.

They stay busy with the cooking and the kayaking and the couple's massages for the first few days. There's always plenty to talk about — I think that monkey has it in for me; Try this sauce and see if I burned it; Is that native dancer an emblem of cultural appropriation?; What are the odds that this volcano becomes non-dormant and we die?; I read an article that about a guy who fell off a zipline and died; why are you constantly so concerned we're about to die? — but he sees Mac and Sloan's points about it being the most time they've spent together. There's twenty little spats about how long it takes for her to do her hair or whether or not he's oversharing with the other couple on the canopy tour. She loves going to the beach but hates getting sand or salt water anywhere; he's pretty damn sure whatever bug repellent she bought doesn't work on him, and all of those things lead to arguments. They're both terrible at unplugging even though they made a pact not to touch their phones, and they're both edgy the first few days as they detox. And when they get on each other's nerves there's nowhere to go to and nobody else to vent to. It's a bit Sartre-ian in its limitations.

But while maneuvering around each other, emotionally and physically, in such tight quarters is new, he finds that he doesn't mind it. In fact, he kind of … likes it. Even though her hair crap and makeup are all over the bathroom and she rearranged the way he'd organized his clothes, he likes it. For a guy that paid half his salary in rent rather than have a roommate throughout his twenties, he considers this progress. By Tuesday, he's packing three extra bottles of water for the pool for her as a matter of course, and she's happily ignoring his kvetching at the couple's massage. And he's finding himself a hell of a lot less irritated than he normally would be with the idea of a couple's massage.

Thursday he returns from the resort's fitness center to find her lounging by the pool in a hammock. She's in one of the eight maxi dresses she packed, and a swimsuit knot is visible at the nape of her neck. Her hair is long and wet around her shoulders. There's a book in her hand, and her sunglasses are perched on the bridge of her nose. "Hey," she says, tipping the mod white sunglasses down. "Join me?"

"Let me shower first," he says.

"Who cares?" she pouts. "Just come sit with me."

He sits carefully to ensure he doesn't tip over the entire operation. "Whatcha reading?" he asks as he slides in behind her.

"Gone Girl," she says. "It's excellent; you should borrow it when I'm done. But for now, be quiet. There are a bunch of magazines in my bag — I think I have the latest issue of the Economist in there."

"Shocking," he says. But getting out of the hammock would require seriously artisanal maneuvering, and he's not up for that. Instead he just sits there, idly scanning some of the pages but mostly just happy as hell to be on a beach, with Sloan. He memorizes her features until she swats irritably at his face. "What?" he laughs.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Nothing … I just realized that I have nothing else to talk to you about right now."

"Great. Can I read in peace?"

"Of course."

"Without you staring?"

"Nope," he says. "I have nothing I want to talk to you about. I just want to be here, in this hammock, and sit here as you read."

"Why are you so happy we ran out of things to talk about?"

"Because it gives me hope that when we're eighty-four and eighty-two and we've covered every conversation topic under the sun we can just sit in our Adirondacks and watch the fireflies."

"I thought we were living on a beach in Florida and I was ranting about the economy?"

"We can do both. We'll be snowbirds."

"I don't think it bodes well if we ran out of stuff to talk about already."

"We still have plenty of stuff to talk about."

"Like what?"

He shrugs. "Do you believe in God?"

She laughs, slightly shocked. "Going straight for the jugular, are you?"

"Something we've never discussed."

She considers the question before answering. "I … wasn't raised to be religious and I've never tried being spiritual, though I think … I'd like to be. I don't know. I do think there's a larger order to … everything, that we don't quite understand and probably never will. And I believe in paying it forward and using your gifts to serve others. And in using your time well. You?"

He shrugs and waits a few beats. "In my way, I guess. We went to Sunday School every week when I was growing up. Organized religion I always found sort of hypocritical, though the rituals could be comforting. But mostly I think you you owe it to others to work to create a more just world, since it mostly sucks. I try to be, you know … compassionate, and patient, but the patience thing never works and compassion sometimes gets lost too. But hey, isn't religion about being accepted for your flaws as long as you promise to try again?"

"Would you want to send kids to Sunday School?"

He shrugs. "I don't think it would be necessary. But maybe taking them to volunteer on Sunday mornings. Like at a soup kitchen. Something like that. I think … they would have so much … money, and things, and opportunities, and it would be important to raise them with gratitude and grace."

"Agreed," she says, burrowing down into his shoulder. "I like that we've run out of things to talk about."

"What do you think happens when you die?"

"Christ!" she says with a laugh that rocks the hammock. "You're deep and philosophical today, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "It's one of those things that's always bugged me."

"As a straight-A know-it-all who doesn't like to take things on faith? I'm so surprised," she teases. Then she says, "I don't know. I'm not … bothered by it, I think it's because it's so inevitable, you know? There's almost some ... comfort in how faceless and unimportant you are when it comes to dying. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think you … live on, based on the life that you lived. If you lived a full life, where you were kind to your neighbors and brought your children up admirably and treated your siblings and friends nicely? You live on through their actions, and through their memory of you. The better and wider your life, the longer you live on. If you have children, you literally live on eternally. Your DNA is carried into each successive generation. I think that's … neat. I think that's neat, that we all have that chance."

"No heaven? No harps on a cloud?"

"You think I would believe in that? Do you?"

"I don't know. Dying used to scare the shit out of me, but now I think by the time you're eighty or eighty-five or ninety, you're probably pretty tired. You've done everything you could possibly do. I do think there's some relationships that maybe transcend death. A soul is basically intangible — there's no organ, no one part of the brain that controls it — so I kind of think that, when you die, it just could just change form. Like how ice becomes water becomes vapor."

She smiles. "That's poetic. But what about if you died young? What about those relationships?"

He sees the leap she's taken. "Are you asking if I would give you permission to …"

"Remarry? Yes. If that's where we're…"

"We've said we were."

"Right. So yes, remarry." It's still so new and fragile.

He considers. "Sloan, the most important thing for me is that you're happy. I mean that, cheesy as it sounds. And I think I get you, most of the time —"

"Just on Fridays and every other Tuesday," she cracks.

"Thanks, smartass. Anyways, I would understand, if I were, you know, on my cloud eating chocolate cake and sushi, why would you move on. I wouldn't want you sitting around being sad, and I don't think that would be productive. And if he — or she, I'm open-minded — would make you happy, I'd be OK with that."

She smiles. "OK," she flips the book back open.

"Hey."

"Hey what?"

"Hey what do you think would happen if you died young?"

She looks at him. "If you wanted to remarry, I would definitely be OK with that. I think it would be good for you."

"But?"

"But I don't see you doing it. Not that I think you shouldn't," she emphasizes. "Especially if … we had kids, and you were raising them alone, I would want you to try and find someone. I think you should. I don't think you will. But I think you should."

"Hey. I would totally find some rich, hot Park Avenue divorcee, just so you know."

She laughs. "This is exactly what I mean. I think you should find that hot Park Avenue divorcee. I just … I don't want you to be lonely, OK? You make yourself lonely sometimes, and that's what I would not want to happen — you walling yourself up or killing yourself with work." she thumbs his face. "OK?"

He knows she's right and that's exactly what would happen. So he goes for levity. "Sloan Sabbith, if you die, I promise to find the hottest, richest divorcee on Park Avenue, and then use her alimony from her first marriage to construct a statue of you on Columbia's campus," he pecks her lips. "Deal?"

She smiles, then picks up her book again. "Deal. Can we got back to having run out of things to talk about?"

"Move in with me?"

"That's a whole nother conversation, and we've been done with talking twice," she laughs and kisses him deeply, and he fells asleep with his arm around her waist.

They're leaving Saturday morning to take the puddle-jumper to the plane to the other plane, so he takes her out for a fancy dinner in the main dining room Friday night. There's tamales and fruit salad and ceviche and fish that was alive two hours ago. They will never get food this fresh in New York City. After a dessert of dulce de leche they go for a walk on the beach and her hair gets tangled in the wind and his pants get soaked when they try and walk in the surf, and pretty soon it starts to rain, because the weather in Central America apparently sucks. "Oh, my god, this is such a cliche!" she yells as they hike up the beach back to the resort. It's not pretty rain: It's the type of rain that pounds so hard it pricks your skin when it lands, heavily, on your arm.

"Move in with me?" he yells as he rubs the water out of his eyes. He's totally joking, which she gets.

"You're a cliche now, too!" she laughs. "God, that was corny. You usually do better than that." She tries to squeeze the water out of his curls, and something inside him shifts as they laugh and try and dry each other off. It fails, so they naturally end up in the shower before haphazardly falling asleep.

Sloan has a pathological inability to oversleep, so they're in no danger of missing the flight the next morning. They make it back to San Jose, and are back in Miami three hours later. Sloan buries her head in his shoulder with a groan. "Well, that was relaxing. Turn them back on on three?" she asks as they clutch their phones.

"One…"

"Two…"

"Ugh, 2,954," he says as his email begins to populate. He starts to scroll through. This is grim.

"Hey! You were supposed to say three!"

"I thought we turned them on on three. Not say three, then turn them on."

"This is why people think you cheat at rock, paper, scissors."

"Those people are sore losers," he rebuts.

"3,116," she says gleefully. "Ha! I win."

"You know what? I will give you this crown," he says. "Look: News release from the Liberty Alliance that Independence Day celebrates American freedom, which Obama doesn't believe in."

She laughs. "Miss Sabbith: I would like to talk to you about your shoes. I like that they are so pointy and shiny. I would like to borrow them some day. Love your friend Drew." She sighs as she deletes the email. "That was a good vacation."

"You really thought it might not be?" He can't help the plaintive tone.

She shrugs and picks at his jacket. "I don't know. It's just … a remote beach with no internet access and no other activities, no other people to interact with? Sharing space? We didn't pick an easy first vacation alone."

"Only if you're emphasizing the 'first vacation' as a thing."

"It is, and you know that now." He does. "We could've gotten bored."

"With you? Nope," he kisses her lightly. "Impossible."

"Charmer," she accuses.

"Charming enough to move in with me?" he asks hopefully. He realizes that he should probably get a ring soon. They're getting closer, more ready, and he needs to be prepared. Maybe Elliot could help. No, Elliot would mock.

"Let's get back to reality first," she says firmly. "You ready?"

He nods, taking her bag. "Always." It's a bit cheesy and definitely not true, but she frequently makes him feel like it is — and that's the point, isn't it?


	15. Don't Know Where the Years Have Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Next installment up here. In my notes, I had this as "January — Sloan finds out Don is learning Japanese." But when I started playing around with it, it ended up being more about change: for Don and Sloan and also Will and Mac. I ended up really liking it, and I hope you do as well!

December

"But I don't want to go," Don says petulantly, throwing his neck back and hitting the headboard. Ow. "Come on, we see these people all the time." He thought — fine, assumed — they were doing a night in. He'd had a shift that day in exchange for the night off, but he still has a show to EP and she has a show to host the next day, since they were saving their days for after the kid was born. He wants his bed and a book and Sloan curled into his side.

"But it's New Year's and people will be dressed up," Sloan says, her voice just as whiny as his. She's holding up a few dresses, making a face. He knows that she's worried about whether or not she'll look fat in them. Despite being light to begin with and gaining exactly the amount of weight Michelle recommended, she's been grumbling about cankles and moonface for the last month (he had never heard those words before, but they're apparently a thing).

"But that means we have to get dressed up too. if we stay home, we can wear sweatpants. Come on, Sloan. We love sweatpants!"

"Don, I really want to go," she says. "Next year, we're going to have an 11-month-old, and we probably won't even make it to midnight. We'll be those people we said we wouldn't be, the ones who pass out on the couch at a quarter till and wake up drooling and with a party hat on the next day. I might have to wear a muumuu and flats and drink sparkling cider, but I want to go to there."

She has a point, plus she's pregnant, his wife, and has a birthday in a few days, so he sighs. "Alright. I'll be ready in ten."

"Well that's just stupid," she says. "It'll take me at least 45 minutes to get ready. Can you take Clem for a quick walk?"

He sighs, because he should have known that request was coming. "Sure," he says, swinging his legs off the bed. "I'll be back in half an hour?"

"Thank you!" she calls.

"And Sloan?" he turns in the doorway. "You look great in that one." He points to a navy dress with a lace overlay that highlights the baby bump that she's tossed on the bed. The dress hits a few inches above the knee and is fairly form-fitting, both of which make Sloan comfortable and more confident. She'd gotten it for Christmas at his mom's but had ended up not wearing it. It's more feminine than he's used to her wearing, but honestly pregnancy has introduced new colors and fabrics and even the concept of patterns into her wardrobe. He likes it a lot.

She smiles. "Thanks."

An hour later, they're en route to ACN via subway — there's no fucking way he's paying for a cab through Times Square tonight — and it's making him absolutely hate humanity. There's no room when they get on, so Sloan, eight-months-pregnant-on-New-Year's-Eve Sloan, ends up standing so a drunk punk in a stupid neon hat can sit and shout obscenities halfway down the car at his friends. After Don glare-guilts him into moving, Sloan takes the seat gratefully, but nevertheless chides, "You didn't need to do that."

"Yeah, yeah, because feminism," he grouses. "You shouldn't be standing, period. That's not feminism, that's medical fact."

"Medical fact is I'm pregnant, not that I can't walk," she retorts.

"Do you wanna switch and I'll sit?" he suggests. "Cause I'm down with that." He doesn't like her being out, at all. Maybe it makes him a jerk; he prefers to think of himself as a dad.

"Of course not," she says like it's obvious.

The party is in full swing by the time they get there, and he puts a hand on the small of her back to guide her through the crowd. "Sloan! Don! Wow, you must be days away from maternity leave," Sydney, a producer on the 8 a.m. show, greets them.

Sloan smiles tightly. "Not for another month, actually. He's still got a while to go."

"Oh, my god. Well, you totally can't tell," Sydney smiles.

"Thanks?" Sloan says, slightly confused.

"We need to go find Will," Don says to escape.

"Was she trying to —"

"No idea," he replies as he finally lays eyes on their friends.

"You made it!" Mac says enthusiastically. "I didn't think you would come."

"Of course we did," Sloan says. "Don wanted to be lame and stay in sweatpants, but luckily one of us is cool in this relationship."

"The kid will be well taken care of then," Charlie smiles.

"Hey, wait, Sloan's the cool parent here? Please," Don says.

"Hey! I was elected class treasurer by a majority of my peers."

"Student council president," he retorts.

"I take it back, you're both nerds," Charlie says dryly.

"I'm going to grab a beer," he announces. "Sloan — orange juice with sparkling water?" It's all she's been drinking lately.

"That'd be great, thanks," she smiles.

They circulate, together and separately, for the next couple hours. He's talking with Neal and Neal's latest fling (named Kiley or Kylie or Kyleigh, and she's unfortunately no Kaylee) when Will approaches him with a beer. "Going to be a big year for you," he points out when Neal and Kiley/Kylie/Kyleigh depart to a Jim-less Maggie (Jim pulled A-C-New Year's Rockin' Eve duty this year, poor bastard).

"Yeah," he says, taking an appreciative swig. "Maybe for you too. Gonna make an honest woman out of Mac this year?"

Will snorts. "I'm ready whenever she is."

"So … never?" While Mac's been ready to be married to Will for nearly as long as he's known her, she's continued to drag her feet about the wedding. At first, she wanted time to get to re-know Will, to repair and forgive every wound they'd inflicted upon each other for the last eight years. They needed to trust each other again.

"Probably, or September, but thanks for the support, Dr. Phil. I'll definitely open up to you in the future."

"Well, hey, I do what I can." He scans the room for Sloan and comes up empty. " Have you seen Sloan anytime in the last twenty minutes?" After Will shakes his head, he says, "If she dragged me out tonight and is sleeping on my couch I'm going to give her all the late-night feedings."

"I'm telling her that."

"Yeah, please don't."

There's one place where Sloan goes to hide in ACN, so he knocks quietly on his door before entering. As expected, she's stretched out on his sofa, her ankles crossed, and she's reading — oh shit. "Hey," he says as he enters. He goes for levity. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You know this is my couch, just in your office, right?" she says. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to learn Japanese?" she holds the book she was reading up.

He shrugs. "I wanted to surprise you."

She turns her head, confused. "While that is a sweet gesture and all, this is a book with two CDs in a plastic pouch. I've been speaking it since birth and spent twenty percent of my life living there. One of those methods is going to be a better instructor than the other."

He shrugs. "I wanted to get a bit under my belt."

"Before what?"

"Telling you, I guess." He didn't really have a plan, beyond 'learn Japanese.' "I figured you probably wanted to speak it with the bean, and I wanted to understand, too."

She softens. "That's really sweet, Don. And I want you to learn it, if you want to. I don't think I'll speak it entirely with the kid, but my mom would shoot me if he didn't at least know how to have a basic conversation. But —"

"But what?"

"I wish you would just tell me things, instead of trying to fix something preemptively and telling me later."

"I don't — What am I fixing?"

"The lawsuit; Zane, way back when; any time you're sick; I think I reserve the right to use your relationship with Maggie as evidence —"

"Ok, A, no, it's so far in the past I don't even have that haircut anymore; B, it's New Year's and I'm not rehashing old arguments about personality flaws tonight, because you dragged us out, so glass houses, Sloan; and C, yes, sometimes I act more like a producer or a journalist than a husband, but this is genuinely not one of those. Sometimes I am just a schlubby husband who wants to impress his wife. I thought it would be a nice gesture. Just trust that it's that, ok? I know it's important to you."

She smiles, and gets up to kiss him. "You know you don't need to surprise me or impress me, right? I married you. I've liked you for five years and I've loved you for two."

"I know. I just like to, alright?" he did. He likes the gestures. He's proud that he, Don Keefer, can make her, Sloan Sabbith, happy. He likes surprising her for a night out, for her birthday, for an extra cup of herbal tea when he glances up and sees her on TV and it looks like she's having a long day. He likes the look on her face right before she scolds him and say he doesn't have to whenever he does any of those things. Basically, he'd do anything for that look of quiet, genuine gratification.

That look crosses her face. "Aishiteru."

"I really haven't gotten past counting in the lessons yet." He's got a pretty good idea of what it means, though.

"You know, if you let me teach you, you'd learn the dirty words too."

"Well now that's a deal," he says. "So what's up? Why are you in here?"

She shrugs. "My feet hurt."

"There are chairs in the newsroom."

"Those aren't very ergonomic. Charlie should get them replaced." He waits a couple beats until she talks, because Sloan, despite being great at deflecting, also regularly gets distracted by her own chatter. "Anyways, I was out there, talking and drinking orange juice, but honestly I wasn't having a great time. My feet hurt, and my back hurts, and we're having a baby this year, Don. A baby," she pauses, as if revealing too much. "Plus, everyone else was really drunk, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with them, hilariou as they were."

He shrugs. "You wanna just watch the ball drop in here?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

It's exactly how he wanted to spend his night. "Are you kidding me? Of course not."

He slides onto the couch, taking off his jacket, and Sloan curls into his side, her head on his lap. He flicks on the TV to A-C-New Year's Rocking Eve Coverage, where Elliot and Courteney from Dayside are gamely chatting with one of the Not-Harry-Styleses from One Direction. "Poor Jim," he smirks. "You're going to have to bring him something tomorrow for dealing with this shit." When Sloan doesn't respond right away, he looks down and smirks. She's dead asleep.

He sits there, quietly watching the show against the backdrop of revelry the next room over, listening to her soft, even sighs.

"Are you two hiding — oh," Mac says, entering and seeing Sloan passed out.

Don shrugs. "Growing a human sounds tiring."

"I think I'll stay with you guys, honestly," she says. "If you don't mind."

"Go for it. We're just waiting for the ball drop." Mac curls up in one of his guest chairs. "Who're you hiding from?"

"I'm not — hiding," she blusters.

"Alright then," he says affably.

"I'm not."

"The lady doth protest too much?"

"Christ, it's a New Year's party, Don, nobody wants to be here."

"Good point," he says, because it's completely true. They lapse into silence for a few minutes. On the TV, Elliot has transitioned to talking with Fred Willard, because why not. God he's happy he's not producing this mess.

"Big year for you guys," Mac says after a pause.

"Could be a big year for you too, you know," he says, absentmindedly stroking Sloan's hand. "You gonna marry Will?"

She shrugs. "I'm thinking September. Does that sound like a nice month for a wedding?"

"Well, that's when we got married, so it seems to be at least decent," he replies. "Can I ask a question, Mac?"

"Why haven't we gotten married, yet?"

"Well, jeez, Mac, way to steal my moment."

"Your moment and my mother's moment and Leona Lansing's moment and once, Bill Clinton's moment. That was a fun conversation."

"So seriously, what's the holdup?"

She gapes, searching for words. "What's the rush?" she finally says. "We're not having kids, so there's no … biological race to legitimacy; we're already living together; he's my life insurance beneficiary. I … like … us."

"You're not having kids?" he's … mildly surprised by that. He expected them to go nuts, to try IVF, to do all those crazy things, to put an exclamation point on the relationship, if not for them, for the world: We're together!

"No," she shakes her head. "I didn't want think I wanted them when we were first together, and then I got stabbed in the stomach, which puts a bit of a crimp on things. I'm forty-one, which is bad enough, but he's a year or two younger than Brian Williams, whose daughter struts around naked on HBO every week. He's not exactly run-around-with-a-toddler age."

"I don't think that's quite the plot of the show."

"My point is, we're both too old. If I really wanted it I have no doubt we could make it happen, but I've got a finite amount of time with him, before his smoking and bad diet and general aversion to exercise do him in. It's selfish to say, as you two embark on this — and I'm so excited to spoil this little little guy to death, so watch out — but I don't want to give that time with him up."

He gets that, he honestly does. "So why don't you just marry him?"

"I don't know. Inertia?"

"That's a terrible reason." It's also total bullshit, and they both know it.

"It took us so long to get back together, then so long to … put everything back together, and now we're good, we're happy, we're busy, and planning the wedding just seems like such a nuisance."

"You could elope. It's been done before."

"You and Sloan got away with it because you'd been dating for ten months and it was impulsive and romantic."

"Almost eleven months if you count the way she does, and the College Board says she's better at it."

"My point is, you hadn't been … mucking up the airwaves for the better part of a decade. We owe it to people, we do. I want to stand in front of everyone and say, Look world! We made it! I am married to this man!"

"So do it."

"But you have to plan it."

"Then hire someone. And for the record, nobody that's a decent person cares if you invited them to your wedding. They're just happy for you. Neal and Jim don't care they weren't invited to our wedding. They're happy we're happy."

"It's not that simple when you've been off and on and up and down and here and there and loud and quiet and right and left for a decade."

He cocks his head and says gently, "What am I missing?"

"I don't know, Columbo, you tell me."

"You're scared," he pieces together. "You're scared to marry Will. Do you not trust him?" He's trying to be gentle, to understand. It wouldn't shock him, given their history.

"No," Mac says emphatically. "I absolutely trust him. I want to be married to him."

"If you want to be married, get married. Seriously. What's wrong? Something's wrong."

"It's just … I know it's not that much of a change, since we live together, but we … I like us, right now. I like him and me, producing the news, going home to squabble about the temperature in the apartment and the color of the kitchen. I don't want to change any of that. We're in a good place that's fragile, that's … pure. I don't want to upset that."

He looks down at Sloan, her face finally slack and peaceful, her stomach larger than he could ever imagine (She's beautiful). "Things are going to change anyways. And not always for the better," though sometimes for the better. "This is a change you can control."

"When did you get so wise, Don?" Mac says, resting her chin on her knuckles.

"About the time this one told me to get my head out of my ass," he shrugs. "Seriously. You said it yourself. You know you don't have all the time in the world left with him. You've lost him before. You should make it count."

"Book your calendar for September then," she smiles, then checks the time on the TV. "It's five till. You're going to want to wake her up - if she misses this she'll be angry."

"Good point," he says, shaking her shoulder gently. "Sloan. Babe, wake up."

"What? What time is it?"Sloan says, sitting up with a start and grabbing his bicep. "Did I fall asleep again?"

"Just for like half an hour," he smiles. "It's five till. You wanna do the countdown?"

"Yeah. Hey, Kenz," she says , sitting up gingerly. "We should probably go home, then. I'm clearly a little tired."

"Will has a car tonight; you two can use it." Mac says. "Come on, Sloan."

Sloan shakes off her grogginess as they grab sparkling apple juice and champagne. Mac finds Will, who has a cigar bitten in between his teeth as he and Charlie argue about how to reform FIFA. Nancy, Sophie, and Maggie materialize around them. Everyone cues their eyes toward the TV, where Elliot's talking about everything that the New Year will bring. Fred Willard and the One Direction boys and Martha Stewart (seriously who the fuck was in charge of booking this insanity?) help him and Courteney count down to midnight. The ball drops, people cheer, there's a lot of kissing and hugging, someone turns up the volume so they can hear Auld Lang Syne. He thinks back to last year — he and Sloan had barely been married three months. He thinks back to the year before that — they had been on three dates. He thinks back to the year before that — he had been here with Maggie. His favorite philosopher, Ferris Bueller, is right: Life moves pretty fast.

"Hey," Sloan says, shaking his shoulder and smiling. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," he smiles, cupping her face and kissing her. She holds his wrists in place, so he can pull away but not apart. "Gonna be a big one."

"Yeah," she smiles, her eyes wide with anticipation and wonder.

They stay there for only a few more minutes, before Mac hustles them into a waiting car and thus stalled traffic.

Sloan rests her shoulder against him. "What were you and Kenzie talking about?"

"When?"

"In your office. When I was dozing." She tips her chin onto his shoulder.

"You were full-on passed out."

"I was resting my eyes."

"If that's what you say. We were talking about she hasn't married Will yet."

"Ha. That's a dangerous road to go down."

"Oh yeah."

"What'd she say?"

"She's afraid of stuff changing, you know, between them. If they make it official. She likes them now."

"Well that's better than what she could have said," he wonders what that means, but she continues, "That's normal, the fear of change. Everyone is."

"I'm not."

"That's a lie."

"Not at this point."

"Don, you don't like when your barista switches shifts."

"That's not real change."

"It's a pretty compelling example."

"OK, yes, I have habits that I am comfortable with."

"'Comfortable," she parrots.

"Exactly. But change … It's gonna happen. And yes, sometimes it's for the worst. But it can also be a great thing." For emphasis, he strokes her belly.

She puts her hand over his. "That's not the kind of change you should be worried about. Big stuff happens, instinct kicks in and you deal. Kenzie's just paranoid to be scared of that kind of change."

"Oh, yeah? What's the type of change you're scared of?"

She shrugs, as if it's obvious, but still a little self-conscious. "The gradual kind. It's not the change that you don't control; it's the change you don't notice. Where it takes months or years and suddenly you wake up and you've gained twenty pounds you're never going to lose, or realize that you haven't had sex in six months, or haven't seen this person in two years. Never went on that vacation you were saving up for because life happened. Big changes are risky, but you'll succeed or you'll fail in dealing with them. The little changes, the slow changes — the result is oblivion."

"You sound like a YA novel."

"Think about it. It's with the small changes — which are unavoidable — that you become someone you never thought you'd be."

He leans back, following her point to its logical conclusion. "We can hire a babysitter next year, you know."

"I know," she says. "But we might not. We might not want to. And I think that's OK — having the baby is a big change. We'll adapt, and we'll change, and we'll become parents. Somehow," she cracks.

"So why'd you want to come out tonight so badly, if not because next year we might pass out at 11:45 with party hats on?" Which was exactly what she had done tonight, but he's smart enough not to point that out.

She shrugs. "Because good thing or bad, little change or big, next New Year's we'll be different people. We just will be. And I'm excited — and, Christ, I'm so ready to not be pregnant anymore — but I like us, currently. I'll like us as parents, but I like this now. And we have maybe a month left of it, so I just wanted to … savor it, I guess. The ACN New Year's party might not've been the best place but …"

"You just wanted to."

"Yup," she smiles, ruefully and sleepily. "I admit, might have been better to savor it on our couch." She leans forward, "Hey Steve. What street are we up to?"

"We've made it all the way from 42nd to 46th. I'd sit back, Dr. Sabbith."

"Thanks, Steve." She leans back. "You heard the man," she says as she curls into his side. She's out, again, in an instant.

Well then.

It's nearly two by the time they make it uptown, and he shakes her gently awake before trying to give Steve an enormous tip (he refuses, saying Will's taken care of it). By the time they make it upstairs, they're too tired to do anything (another reason why he still wishes they stayed in, but whatever) but peel off their clothes. As Sloan's settling next to him — wrapped up in flannel pants and enormous socks and a tank top and a cardigan because instead of overheating she's always freezing, which is weird — she murmurs, "This is going to be a really great year, Don."

"Lots of changes," he points, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She kisses the place where his jaw meets his neck and burrows her head in his chest. "As I said. A great year."


	16. Confessions of love for all of you

August

"Sloan, come on, the staff's ready for rundown," Jim says, knocking on her door.

"Oh. Right," Sloan says, glancing at the clock and realizing she's four minutes late to her own meeting.

"Everything OK?"

"Peachy," she says, getting up. "If you were to surprise Maggie with something for a special occasion, what would it be?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes that it's a little demented to be asking the guy who broke up her husband's relationship with his ex-girlfriend for relationship advice, but hey, she's progressive. And a workaholic who forgot to keep in touch with a lot of her married friends. And a little desperate.

"Uh," Jim searches. "We've been dating for two months. Her birthday is in March. What anniversary did I miss? Is three months a thing?"

"Only if you're sixteen," Sloan replies disdainfully. "No, for me and Don. You know, since our first anniversary is coming up in a couple weeks? Of our marriage, not of when we smiled at each other at our lockers."

"Oh," Jim says sheepishly, scraping at the nape of his neck. He does that a lot when he's nervous. "I, uh, dunno. Do you want to …. go somewhere?"

"I don't really care," Sloan says. "But you know what Don is sneakily great at? Surprises. And gifts. He took me back to the diner where we had our first date on the anniversary of that date. He planned a surprise New Year's-slash-my-birthday trip to Aruba last year. He took me to the Standard for our third date. He —"

"He's good at dates, I get it," Jim says.

"Not just dates. He remembered my mother wanted a NutriBullet ten months after she mentioned it and got it for her birthday. Do you know how fucking annoying that is? I want to win this one."

"You know, you two are usually …"

"What?"

He shrugs. "Smug about the whole partnership thing."

"The whole 'partnership' thing?"

"You're all, you know, 'low drama,' and 'supportive,' and 'equal' —"

"How are any of those bad, and how do any of those relate to wanting to kick his ass at anniversaries?"

"You don't think they're a little … mutually incompatible?"

She stares at him. "Of course not."

"Alright then," Jim says. "Rundown?"

"Yes," she walks into the conference room as eight producers and bookers wait expectantly. "If anyone has ever received a fantastic birthday gift, anniversary gift, or holiday gift that can be easily adapted so that I can win my anniversary, please shoot me an email by five P.M. today. Winner will win … something. That is fabulous."

"Sloan," Jim groans, his hand on his face.

"Oh. Right, and obviously, something that a four-months-pregnant woman can do. So no skydiving. But the prize. Is fabulous. Obviously it has to stay under wraps since I don't want to start a scrum of jealousy, but rest assured, it's pretty awesome."

"The news, people!" Jim says. "We're going to start with chemical weapons and Syria —"

Later that night, she's in the makeup room getting prepped when Don walks in with a cucumber-melon smoothie. "For the record, this beverage is disgusting," he says as he hands it to her.

"For the record, it's full of antioxidants and nutrients that will grow your kid," she parries back. "What's up?"

"Word on the street is you're trying to win the anniversary," Don says, trying to suppress a shit-eating grin.

Her mouth drops. "Who told? I will fire them."

He snorts. "You can't fire them."

"Money on them not knowing that."

"It was Jim."

"Oh. I can't fire Jim."

"And he knows that."

"I hate having a smart EP."

"He was telling Maggie and Mac and I overheard."

"Well," she says, standing, "consider the gauntlet thrown. This anniversary is yours to lose, mister."

He kisses her lightly. "Bring it on."

"I have no idea how I'm going to win this anniversary," she admits to Kenzie the next morning as they're working with Sven, their new trainer, in the ACN gym.

"I really don't know why you are trying," Kenzie acknowledges.

"I mean, I got him a fucking watch for our first Christmas together. A fucking watch. That's not romantic!" she says.

"Is there anything he's mentioned lately that he's wanted?"

"No," she huffs. "He hates spending money on anything but trips. I'm lucky I got the kitchen renovated before he realized how much it cost."

"Ladies, let's focus," Sven reprimands, then says, "Just give him a great fuck. Preferably on a beach."

"That's honestly not the worst idea he's had. Certainly better than those dangling sit-ups," Kenzie points out later. Sloan can't help but agree with her.

It's not that she wants to win, like it's a competition. It's just, he's so … casually effortless, when it comes to being romantic. He asked her to move in with me for nearly half a year and brings her drinks when he notices she looks tired on air; he makes her dance in the kitchen late at night and buys books he thinks she might like whenever he's at a bookstore. He is the undisputed king of surprise weekends away; when he's bored at work he sends her Spotify playlists of the Magnetic Zeros and the Civil Wars and Kanye West and the Talking Heads and the Smiths (though that might be because he's not impressed with her taste in music, which even she has to admit is pretty limited). Don is all long walks holding her hand and sweet Post-Its on her interview notes and flowers-just-because-its-Tuesday and warm silences on phone calls when they're in different cities. Sometimes she worries; that he thinks he needs to win her over again and again with these romantic gestures, that he's Bill Murray and she's Andie MacDowell. She doesn't want him to think that.

But for the most part it's genuine, it's natural. It's also a little surprising, because when she met him, when he was a short fuse with a chip on his shoulder and an attitude problem and a boatload of ambition and arrogance, when she started to fall for him, she never would have predicted this. She liked him almost against her will; she would have enjoyed this and them anyways, would have been satisfied with having his assistant reminding him of anniversaries and generic red roses on Valentine's Day and her birthday.

This is … much better, but also much harder. Because she's not romantic. She's literal. She blurts things like because you never asked me out and I love you waitnoItakethatback out. She has terrible timing and worse phrasing. She loves him fiercely — which should be obvious, since they are having a child together less than two years after getting together — but besides just being there, she has little idea how to express that. This should be entirely unsurprising; she got her dad socks for twenty-three straight Christmases. She wants to make this memorable.

"I can't just take him to a beach and fuck him though. I'm not a frat boy."

"You could make him something, if he doesn't want you to buy anything?"

"Yes, Kenzie, because the first thing people say when they think of me is, That Sloan Sabbith — she's pretty crafty."

Kenzie shrugs, then squints. "Buy something off Itsy-Bitsy?"

"Etsy?"

"Excuse you, too," Kenzie says.

Don seems to sense her stress, because that night over a split bowl of leftover ramen in bed, he says, "I think we should lay some ground rules."

"What?" she asks, snatching the last piece of pork belly with her chopsticks.

"For the anniversary. I don't want to be in a situation where we both pick a restaurant or plan something, and then we get in an argument, and then we don't have sex. Let's be honest, Sloan, that's the most important part of our anniversary."

"That we have sex? We have sex all the time. Or do you think this is an immaculate conception?" She gestures to the four-month bump, which is so blatant she'd had to announce the pregnancy on air and respond to thousands of congratulations on Twitter a few weeks ago. She wasn't wholly opposed to the entire ordeal — if she hadn't known what she was getting into when she started at ACN, she certainly knew when she agreed to the new show and the higher profile — but she thinks she will always find this public side to her job, which she otherwise considers sensible and serious, almost bizarre.

"Yes, but anniversary sex is different."

"With all your experiences having anniversary sex?"

"I have very high expectations," he grins wolfishly. Hmm. Maybe she can role-play her way to winning this anniversary. "Anyways," he changes tone. "It's all yours. Everything. It's yours."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'll buy you something — obviously — but restaurant, dinner, dress code, whether or not we end up in Vermont at a syrup farm — it's all up to you. You're stressed, and I don't like that, but more importantly, I've been a dick and hoarded occasions. That's antifeminist, and I am too progressive for that. The anniversary is yours. It's all on you. We'll use your credit card, too."

"That gives me an unfair advantage and is a terrible way to win," she complains. "No way."

"Nope. I'm withdrawing. It's all yours, Sabbith."

She puts the plastic ramen bowl to the side and kisses him. "This is because you're intimidated, right?"

He lifts her on his lap. "Absolutely," he promises, only half-facetiously. Grinning, she pushes his boxes down over his hips.

Despite Don's caving to logic and her awesomeness, she's still searching for something to get him. Don, as she told Kenzie, is terribly hard to buy for: He hates spending money and will dopily say something like, You're everything I need if she asks what he might like. Her associate producer suggests a Broadway show and dinner at Tavern on the Green, and it takes everything in Sloan not to fire the girl on the spot. She orders Jim to come up with something and threatens to fire him with insubordination when he doesn't, but Charlie tells her HR won't allow that (like he can talk about HR violations). Don, for his part, looks absolutely smug most of the time — he has her gift figured out.

She needs help. "What do you think of Quebec?" she asks Will during her segment one night. She doesn't appear every night on NewsNight; just when there is an important economics story. Which is pretty frequently.

"I think it's damn far away from New York," he grouses.

"What did you do for your first anniversary with Kenzie? The first time around. Or even the second."

"When was there a second time around that's not the time we're currently on?"

"When she came back to NewsNight and was your producer?"

"We weren't dating then. You think I celebrated our anniversary of not-dating?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," she thinks for a second. "The party! At your place. The night we killed Osama. When Don and Elliot and I were stuck on the tarmac?"

"That wasn't for Mac."

"She made you throw it. She made you be social."

"I am perfectly social."

"What if I threw a party? The wedding reception we never had?"

"You two did a housewarming in April."

"Will, you need to help meeeee," she whines, banging lightly on the desk. They have another minute. "He's impossible to plan for."

"For Christ's sake, Sloan, you're smart, and the two of you are married and having a kid. You know the guy. Keep it simple. And yes, he's as simple as you think he is — he just wants to be with you, Sloan," Will finally says. "He'll forget what it's like to skydive and getting a tattoo will be bullshit in time. All he wants to do is spend time with you. He asked you to marry him about sixty-two times; he actually meant it."

That gives her her first idea.

An email from her mother gives her the second.

The file comes innocuously enough, between Market Wrap Up and Starting Line (her mother has an incredibly annoying habit of emailing when she's at the busiest part of her day.). There's no subject (also an annoying habit) and a quick note: Sloan — I forgot Sutton had this. Thought you and Don would enjoy. Looking forward to seeing you both soon. Love Mom.

She taps on the file and waits impatiently as it loads. Suddenly, she's watching herself put the finishing touches on her makeup right before her wedding. Her jaw drops. She moves the cursor to check the video length: forty-six minutes and twenty-three seconds. She calls her mom. "What am I looking at?"

"I don't know, Sloan, I'm in San Francisco. At work," Nami says. "Why don't you tell me what you are looking at?"

"The video. That you sent?"

"Oh. That's your wedding day, Sloan."

"I know that," Sloan replies. Her mother's archness used to fluster her, but now it's more of a mild annoyance. "I didn't know that anyone filmed it, and I'm asking to know more about its general existence."

"Oh. Well, given the short notice you gave us — which, as I have said a thousand times, I am fine with, Sloan, please don't start with the wounded routine again — I wanted to make sure it was documented. For you two, of course, but also in case nobody believed me."

"You put it in the New York Times, Mom."

"Well, I didn't know that would happen at the time. Anyways, Sutton and Sawyer offered to film it, and together they got most of the ceremony and some of the reception. Don's brother got quite a bit too, and sent it to them. Brent edited it all together and gave it to Sutton, but Harvard Med apparently admitted a flake, as did the Peace Corps and Brown University. She forgot to send it to me until last week. I just thought you and Don would appreciate it."

"I … do," she says, suddenly speechless.

"I'm glad," her mother says. "You should call your sisters, tell them that, OK?"

"I will," she promises. "I have to go. But … thanks, Mom. That was a really good idea."

"I know," Nami smiles. "Tell Don hi, OK? And how're you doing?"

"I'm fine. Everything's normal, it's good. We have an ultrasound next week; I'll email you guys all photos, OK?"

They hang up, and Sloan drops prep to watch. Brent has somehow set it to music, and it takes her a few minutes to realize that the music is Will — he'd brought his guitar and provided the music. At the reception he'd had a fantastic time, playing You are the Best Thing for their first dance, and Your Song and God Only Knows and In My Life and I Will and Make You Feel My Love and a dozen others with the house band backing him, before dropping the guitar in favor of waltzing Kenzie around the dance floor. She's incredibly impressed with the quality of the recording.

She's forgotten so much of the day: the trouble they had with the zipper of the above-knee classic lace Amsale dress; the fact that they forgot the flowers and she had to stop at a florist's (who gave them to her for free); the rush to make it to City Hall at the appointed time because of said emergency stop. She learns new things: Don apparently was so nervous he couldn't tie his tie, and Mitch had pretended to lose the rings, which caused a mini-eruption. Whoops.

She watches herself walk in — nervous but also confident, her shoulder back her gait steady and her eyes clear — to Will playing Maybe I'm Amazed (McCartney's version, obviously). She makes it to the front, where Bloomberg is waiting, and as they start to say her vows, she gets her second idea.

"So what's the game plan?" Don asks her on the day of their anniversary, after a vigorously fun round of morning anniversary sex (Don was right; it's pretty freaking awesome). "What should I wear? What type of shoes?"

"A suit, and I'll even let you pick the shoes," she smirks, then kisses him. "Happy anniversary, husband." She smiles. "I actually want to talk to you about that."

"What?" his face drops.

"What? Oh! No. That came out wrong."

"Uh, can you correct that, then?" He's two seconds away from a heart attack, so she moves quickly.

"The husband thing … Your last name," she pauses. "I want to change my last name. Not professionally — I'll still write and anchor and speak under Sabbith — but … Keefer for the other stuff. Driver's licenses, investment accounts, IRS forms … School-enrollment paperwork. That kind of stuff."

He takes in a deep breath. "Sloan … You don't have to. I don't need you too."

"But you want me to?"

"I don't care if you do," he says honestly. "We've been ... married for a year, and we've talked about it, what, once? If that?"

"OK," she shrugs. "I want to."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she says, then hits him. "Do you not want me to?"

"No, I … Of course, if that's what you want to do."

"That's not what I asked," she shifts down, resting her head on her palm.

"I don't want you to want to do it for me. If you want to do it I want you to do it."

"Now we're just arguing semantics," she flops sideways.

"No, I … I guess, yes, I want it. But do I need it? No. Me, you, we, us — we're a family," he smooths a hand over her gently distended stomach. "Already. We are. I don't care who has whose last name. I don't care if the bean's last name is hyphenated or mine or yours. But if you want to? Yes. Of course. I'd love that." He presses her back into the mattress confidently and is suddenly everywhere — tickling her hip, ghosting his lips over her breasts, rocking into her.

At seven-thirty, they're ready to go, Don practically bouncing on his heels. "Where to first?"

"Wait and see," she chides with a smile. Being in charge of the anniversary is fun. She's got a car waiting, so dinner's location is sufficiently a surprise, and the look on his face when they arrive at the Boathouse — where their wedding dinner was — is sufficiently worth it. He twirls her around, actually picking her up, and makes her squeal with surprise.

They settle into a quiet, tucked-in table with a view of the lake, and eat and drink water liberally. The waitress discreetly drops her oversized gift by the table. After a main course of branzino and lamb, she slides the bag over to him. He pulls a flat package — clearly jewelry — out of the inside pocket of his suit. "Before you open that," he says, "I just want to say — this year has been way more fucking eventful than I could have ever imagined. It's been a lot harder. It's been more unexpected. Elections, hurricanes, lawsuits, a new show, Sandy Hook, Boston. The baby. The fucking renovation." They both snort. "But it's also been … better, and more fun, than anything I could've imagined. And I'm so glad that I've gotten to be with you, and do all of this, with you," he thumbs her knuckles. "So thank you. For being here through this year. And … I love you. And I'm so excited for everything that comes next."

She leans forward to kiss him, and he meets her halfway. Once they split, she slides her finger under the wrapping paper and exposes the jewelry box. Cracking it open, she finds a gold necklace with a simple diamond solitaire. "One year, one baby en route …" he explains. "Flip it over." On the back of the casing, she can faintly make out their anniversary engraved on it. "The necklace, you can add a stone underneath it to make a chain. So when the bean and any … hypothetical future bean … comes along, we can add a stone."

She stares at it for another second. "It's beautiful, Don. Thank you." She kisses him again, then fumbles to put the necklace on.

His gift is wrapped and in a bag, and he pulls it out next. "Any preface?" he checks, holding up the gift. It's huge. She didn't realize how big it was when she ordered it.

"Only that I love you," she lifts one shoulder. "And that this year has been unexpected. And great. And we made it through … So I know we can make it through whatever happens next. And," she shrugs, "I'm excited to see what that might be."

She squeezes his hand, and he tears the paper off. Once he realizes what it is, his jaw drops. "Sloan …"

"The first anniversary is traditionally paper," she explains. "So I found a typographer and printmaker in Brooklyn, and I had him make it." It's a framed poster, 24x36 inches, a list printed out in a blocky typewriter font against a silver-gray background. A second set of text is calligraphed in white underneath, just slightly more prominent than a watermark.

"Is this —"

"If I'm doing the math correctly, you asked me to move in with you one hundred and seventeen times, from the time we started talking about it until I said yes," she says. "So … yes."

"One, after the argument Mac inadvertently started; two, while brushing our teeth; three, in your office before Elliot's show; four, right before I fell asleep; fourteen, at your mom's house; thirty-seven, in the hammock in Costa Rica; seventy-eight, after the Journey performance at the RNC convention; one hundred and eleven, on a coffee run after the Genoa broadcast …" he scans down. "And the time I finally said yes. You remembered all one hundred and seventeen times?"

"I … think so," she says. "I had to go through my schedule and the broadcasts, a few email chains with Kenzie, to remember what I was doing every day … And I don't think they're in the right order, necessarily —"

"This is amazing. Sloan. This is perfect."

"You like it?" she checks, a warm feeling spreading over her.

"Are you shitting me? I love it. We should hang this in the hallway. What's printed underneath it?"

"Look closely."

"Shit," he says, as he begins to figure it out.

"You like it?"

"Yes," he says emphatically, sitting back. "Are these—"

"Our vows, yes."

"How did you — I didn't write these down anywhere. How did you remember? Are you an autodidact?"

"No," she laughs. "My sisters apparently made a video of the wedding, and then forgot to send it to me until last week. Since I know I didn't have a copy, I thought … This would be nice."

"This is perfect." He looks them over, and then begins to quote from his. "'I promise to always let you have the business section and crosswords first, to always remember to add the milk when I bring you coffee, to not back down from an argument but to never go to bed angry. I love you, but I'm not marrying you because I love you — I'm marrying because I want a life with you. I want the fights over how best to pack a suitcase, the negotiations over dishes versus vacuuming, the Saturdays at soccer games, and the stupid inside jokes that carry on for ten years,'" he grins. "These are pretty good."

"I like the part where you talk about the major stories and the forgotten stories," she says. "And partnership." Unsurprisingly, he'd written really great vows.

He reads hers over too. "I really give you confidence?"

"Yes. Of course," she says.

His eyes search hers for a second, and she's reminded how fragile — how precious, how precarious — this whole relationship is and can be. A year is nothing, in the scheme of things. She's beginning to realize that. Stressful days at work, unplanned pregnancies, salary negotiations, all of those things are minor. Neither of them are easy; this is not easy. But she's convinced it's worth it. "Thank you," he finally says.

They split a chocolate-raspberry tart for dessert, and then it's back home, where new lingerie brings out Don's assertive, adventurous side (something she's been sorely missing since the pregnancy made him start being more cautious). After she rolls off him and settles down, she realizes she's forgotten one final thing. She grabs the impractical lace teddy and runs into the kitchen, grabbing the plate and two forks from the drawer. Back in the bedroom, Don, his hair perfectly sex-mussed and his chest bare, is still waiting.

"What's that?" he asks with a yawn.

"The top layer of our cake," she explains, settling next to him and handing him a fork. "Happy anniversary."

They tuck into the vanilla-hazelnut cake, and, since Don hasn't seen it, cue up Sutton's homemade video on the flatscreen. She gets bored halfway through — beautiful as it is, it's also fairly predictable — and starts scratching a pattern on Don's chest, then stomach, and finally dipping lower. Despite the teasing and touching he manages to stay half-focused on the video through the end, but then immediately pulls her onto his lap.

"Good anniversary?" she checks as she starts kissing his neck.

"The best," he affirms, his voice thick and disarmingly genuine. She pulls back, studies him critically. He stares back at her, his eyes bold and unapologetically worshipful — and then grins.

And she grins back.


	17. All around us'll fall down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks so much for the kind response to the last piece — I loved getting to write Don and Sloan's anniversary and am happy y'all liked it (not going to lie, the anniversary gift was not something I had totally planned out when I wrote the engagement, so I was excited to come up with it).
> 
> This one ties pretty closely to the prior one (a lot of Sloan's references will make more sense now). However, I do feel this one should come with a warning: It deals w/ a pretty big and traumatic news event that happened in 2012. I rarely make warnings (and don't like the phrase trigger warning at all) but felt it was important to note it.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

December 

“The semester is over. All you need to do is grade papers, and you have a week to do that,” Don wheedles as Sloan scans some idiot undergrad’s essay with a pen. “Come on, we’ve spent the last five weekends at Restoration Hardware and Home Goods and that cabinet shop that smelled like a shoebox —”

“It was cedar and it was lovely.”

“My point is the bathroom is done and the kitchen is … getting worked on, which is great because I am going to go frigging cross-eyed if I had to stare at any more stainless-steel faucets —”

“Glad you’re so invested in our new home.” She nudges her glasses up her nose before flipping the essay’s page. 

“Not what I said and you know it.” He flops onto his back. He has A Plan, and Sloan is scarily close to ruining it. “I’m very excited about the renovation. I’m also mostly excited for it to be done.” 

“You’re making my point.”

“No, you’re ignoring mine,” he sits up. “Come on, we finally have a free Sunday. It’s been so stressful, with Genoa, and Sandy, and the election, and the move, and Thanksgiving with my mom and brother —”

“And now we have all these boxes to unpack, and Christmas gifts to buy, and I have to testify on Wednesday, and you have to testify on Friday, and I have a week to grade twenty 20-page term papers on the Dawes Plan and twenty-five final essays analyzing the economic implications of the fall of the Berlin Wall on the creation of the Eurozone.” 

“What’s the difference between a term paper and an essay?”

“The term paper’s for the harder class — Macroeconomics in Sociopolitical Context — and they get a data set to analyze.”

“They get a data set on something that happened 90 years ago?”

“You know when the Dawes Plan was?”

“I did marry you.” 

“Aw,” she coos, then leans forward to kiss him. “I think that might honestly be the sweetest thing you have ever said.” 

“Hey,” he says, not sure if he should be offended. He gets up, because his plan clearly has to go into action now or he’ll lose the entire day to Sloan working. “Alright, come on. Come on, come on, come on.” He pulls her up by the hands.

“Don,” she shrieks as the papers slide off her lap. “Come on, babe, I’m sorry, I just have to —”

“Nope,” he smiles, kissing her full on her mouth. “We’re having a no-work Sunday.”

“Alright, can we go Christmas shopping for our families?” she asks. “Think about it: Fun and practical.” She shoots some finger guns at him to entice him. God help him, he falls a little bit further in love with her, but he stays firm. 

“No. We have two weeks till Christmas. We have not had a day to ourselves in ages, and we deserve one, dammit. Let’s do it.” 

“Alright,” she smiles, convinced. “So to kick it off … Join me in the shower?”

He grins. “Now you’re talking.” 

An hour later he’s got her bundled up (literally … she is freezing, all the time) and heading down to the subway. She barely wanted to leave the house and is wearing comfortable clothing in protest: Her glasses, a ratty pair of jeans and boots, the oversized olive sweater that she’s had since college. “You want to hit up Cookshop? It’s been forever since we went there. Or Buvette,” she suggests.

“I’m kind of craving something else,” he says.

She cocks her head. “Donald Blaine Keefer, you are up to something,” she accuses.

“Breakfast out with my girl,” he shrugs. “Seriously. Just craving a particular eggs Benedict.”

“From where?”

He grins. “You’ll see.”   
“From some place by the office?” she guesses as they exit Times Square. “Seriously, Don? We could’ve stayed uptown.” 

“Around the corner,” he says casually.

“Ok, your birthday is in September, as is our anniversary. Your work anniversary is in April and if you celebrated that, I would divorce you. You broke your collarbone over spring break so nothing associated with that; your dad passed away in June; if it’s something associated with your favorite movie I’ve lost it,” she runs down the list as they wind across West 41st. “We started dating in November, so it’s not that. Are you dying, Don? Are you taking me somewhere so that you can murder-suicide us because the thought of me trying to go at it alone is just too traumatizing? I’ll be strong, Don, I promise. We can get pregnant and I’ll have that to remember you by.”

He stops as she continues down this demented ramble. “Our first date was in December. Not November.” 

“Are you kidding me? We started seeing each other right before Thanksgiving. That was in November.” 

“Uh,” he stalls as he realizes that his romantic gesture was about to get him in very deep trouble. “We kissed in November, yes. But we weren’t …”

“Oh, we were just sleeping together?” she challenges, and he can’t tell if she’s joking. “That wasn’t special for you too?” Alright, now she’s definitely being sarcastic.

“You know what, you’re right. If your mother asks me over Christmas what our first date was like, I’ll absolutely say that we got into our second-biggest fight ever in the middle of a bar and then went home together because it got too cold to continue making out next to a trash can on the street and then had sex. No Sloan, I’m telling your mother that on our first date we went to ‘inoteca and that I wore a blazer.”

“Ok, even if you go by that metric, that’s also false, since that wasn’t our first date, that was your Mulligan first date. Our first date was breakfast at that place by your old apartment —”

“Market Diner?” he asks as they approach the front of the restaurant. Damn, they could not have timed that better. “That place?”

She turns to face him, jaw open. “It’s one year since our first date,” she deduces. “You’re recreating our first date.” 

“Trying to,” he admits. “Still want to deal with the crowds for Christmas shopping?”

“Fuck no,” she says, taking his hand and tugging him into the restaurant. “What booth were we sitting in?” 

“Uh, that one, right?” he asks, pointing to the one to the right of the corner booth.

“Yeah,” she says. There’s a clutch of hipsters sitting there already, but Sloan makes a beeline for that table. “Excuse me? Hi,” she says. 

“Hi?” one of the five hungover twentysomethings says.

“My name is Sloan,” she says. “How are you?”

“Hungry,” the second kid says.

“Good! Well not good, but you’re in the right place. Anyways, this is my husband, Don,” she says, tugging him over. He waves. “And we have a   
favor to ask. You see, last year, on this date and at this time, we had our first date. And it was here. In this booth. And now we live, like fifty blocks uptown, but we came back here for today. And we were wondering if we could sit here?”

The kids stare at them. Sloan cocks her head and smiles. “Sure, I guess,” one of girls finally shrugs. 

“You got married after less than a year of dating?” the second girl says, giving one of the guys (Don presumes her boyfriend) a glare.

“Yes, but we’re old,” Don says. 

“I saw an article on Facebook about a married couple that went to the same Red Lobster every year for their anniversary, and after like, forty-two years he died, but he’d left cards with the restaurant manager to give her every year on their anniversary. Are you guys like that? You should do that,” the punkiest-looking, with his smirk and his flannel, says.

Don glares. “I don’t know. We’re at Year One. Let’s see how years two through forty-one go, buddy?” He pats him on the back and the kids, plates and cups in hand, clear the table. 

“You kinda look like you’re famous. Are you famous?” one of them asks Sloan.

“I promise you I’m not,” she says as she slides into the booth with a bounce. “Thanks guys!” she turns to him. “All riiiiight. We got our booth. Even though you were surly.”

“I was not surly, they were young,” he protests. 

“Sure, old man. C’mon, what did we order?”

“I had Eggs benedict. You had French toast.” 

She smiles as she unfolds the menu. “You really remember all of this?”

“Yeah, I do,” he smiles as she absently reaches for his hand. “Plus, you know, I think I’ve seen you order something besides French toast exactly twice at brunch. So, you know, good guess.” 

She grins. “You know how to make a girl feel special, Keefer.” 

“We’ve got forty-one more years of this.”

“I know,” she smiles. “Anyways. If this is a just-us-no-work Sunday, can I ask you about how your trial prep is going? Or about your opinions of Marina from NBC? Because I have thoughts about her.”

“She seems nice.”

“Too nice. I’m suspicious.”

“Of niceness?” 

“Of too-niceness.” 

“If only ACN were accused of too-niceness and not institutional failure.” 

She’s quiet, and her body language shifts. He instantly regrets saying that. “Do you think they’ll —”

“No, Sloan, I don’t.”

“I’m just saying, it got brought up in both of our depo preps.” 

“And both times, it was ridiculously stupid. Weren’t you the one explaining that spousal privilege begins with marriage? So we’d look incredibly dumb if we got married to hold conversations pre-marriage sacred.”

“Yes but —”

“But they’re going to try and make us all look like idiots. C’mon. Whatever we’re gonna get, Jim and Maggie and Will and Mac are going to look, like, ten times worse. Let’s not talk about the suit. How’s that book you were reading? You finish it?”

“Book club is the stupidest idea ever. Why can’t we just own the fact that we like to drink? Nobody ever finishes the book. I never finished the book, and I love reading. It would be so much less stressful if we just met and said, fuck it, we’re busy, here’s a mojito and let’s talk.”

He laughs. “You hate mojitos.”

“As an example, Keefer,” she sticks out her tongue. 

“Can I take your order?” the waitress smiles breathlessly. 

After brunch — where, yes, she eats French toast — they head to the Strand to kick off a day of Sloan’s favorite activities. After the bookstore it’s ice skating at Rockefeller Center, and he’s proud that he manages to stay upright among the crush of tourists. Then it’s to the chocolate-fondue place she’s been wanting to try, and then to the planetarium at the Natural History Museum, which is Sloan’s favorite museum. 

“Not gonna lie — you did good today, Keefer,” she says, wrapping both her arms around his left bicep.

“Not over yet,” he says. “We still have dinner.” 

“Are we going to ‘inoteca?” she asks. “Wait, I’m not going to guess anything else. I’m just going to be surprised.” 

“We’re not going to go to ‘inoteca,” he says. “When we went there last year, I didn’t know we would still be together now. It’s first date, not first anniversary.”

“You love ‘inoteca.”

“Yeah, but this’ll be better.” 

“Dinner on a spaceship then?” she guesses.

He spins her around, making her laugh. “You are going to have to wait,” he smiles, kissing her. 

She steps back. “We could just stay in.”

“Tempting as that is … No. And we don’t have a kitchen.”

“You’re too good to me, Keefer,” she says fondly.

Later that night, as they’re getting their seats at Daniel, she says, “You do know that the bar for every successive anniversary has been raised to basically stratospheric levels, right? And that while lovely, none of this is necessary?”

“I know,” he smiles. “But that’s why I want to do it.” 

The dinner is as amazing as every review has promised, and the evening — relaxing, romantic — is even better than he had planned. Which is a damned good thing. Because saying the next week is “hellish” only begins to describe it. 

Sloan’s deposition is Wednesday, so she spends Monday and Tuesday prepping. He doesn’t see her at all the day of her deposition, and he finds her in bed with the damned essays on the Dawes Plan and a bunch of ice cream that night. 

“How’d it go?”

“I hate lawyers,” she sighs.

“Good thing you don’t have two in your immediate family.” 

“They implied that I was unequipped to cover the Genoa report since I have economics degrees,” she grouses. “Seriously?”

“They don’t have a case,” he says, even though they sort of do. They definitely might. “Anything else I have to look forward to?”

“So many things. I’ll let you discover for yourself,” she rests her head on his shoulder. “Is it the weekend yet?” 

Friday morning, he’s in his stupidest blue suit and scratchiest shirt. Rebecca, smirking in a royal-blue dress, is next to him. “So, Mr. Keefer, you’re married to Sloan Sabbith, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“And she is a correspondent at ACN? You two work together?”

“You interviewed her on Wednesday.”

“When did you two start dating?”

“That’s kind of a funny story, actually. I say it was December 9th of last year, since that’s when we had our first official date, but she puts it a few weeks earlier, when we first kissed.”

“But it’s been a year?”

“Or a year and three weeks.”

“Irregardless —”

“Regardless. That’s not actually a word.” 

“Irregardless, you two were dating for the entire time you served on the Red Team?”

“Yup,” he says. 

“And you got married ten days after the Genoa report aired?”

“Yes. September 15.”

“Kind of suspicious timing, don’t you think?”

“Not really. I just kind of think of it as my anniversary,” he says, swirling his wedding ring. They went through this in deposition prep.

“You and your wife were both on the Red Team, you both had your concerns about the report —”

“I never said that.”

“Did you?”

“Have concerns?”

“Yes.” 

“We both expressed skepticism at the report’s suitability for air, and then after Valenzuela came forward we both expressed different concerns with the ramifications of airing the report. At the time — since, I should add, your client had presented us doctored footage — we assumed that every piece of evidence we had in front of us was correct.” 

His phone, in front of him, starts to hum. Mac. Strange. She knows exactly where he is. He silences it. 

“So you both had concerns, you both voiced your concerns, Charlie Skinner and Mac McHale and Will McAvoy ignore them, and then the report airs. Suddenly, you’re in trouble, and ten days later you and your girlfriend of nine months are married?”

“Excuse me. Pulling off a surprise wedding was the most romantic gesture of my life. Do you know how hard it is to surprise a double-doctorate prizewinning journalist? And wow her Nobel Prize-winning father and Hillary Clinton-confidante mother? Hard. Very hard. I’m kind of insulted.” Rebecca’s phone buzzes, and she turns it off.

“What were your concerns?”

“My concerns?” Dammit, now Charlie is calling. He turns the phone to silent. 

“Yes. With airing the report.”

“I was concerned that ultimately, if we aired the report, exposing Genoa would be a recruiting tool for terrorists.”

“And you found nothing objectionable about the report?”

“I found plenty objectionable about the report. But I assumed it was honest reporting and wasn’t asking whether or not there was doctored footage.” 

“So you find things objectionable about the report, but you only voice concerns about the ramifications —” 

Now Sloan is calling. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

“We’re in a deposition.” 

“Yeah, I’ve had my boss, my coworker, and now my wife call. Something is going on. Yeah, Sloan?” he twists to give them a modicum of privacy. 

“Don?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“You need to come to the newsroom.”

“I’m in my depo—”

“There’s a shooting. At an elementary school. In Connecticut. Marina’s been covering it but we’re about to switch to Matt and Chelsea for the 11 o’clock hour and I’m going on as the national correspondent. We need you.” 

By the time he’s downstairs, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, there’s a computer-rendered map of the school — Sandy Hook ES — on a split-screen, and Sloan, Matt, and Chelsea are in the other box.

“What we know is that the police are responding, they’re creating a perimeter and they’re containing the scene. ABC News is reporting that all other schools in the town are on lockdown,” Sloan says on TV. “We have no idea who the shooter or shooters might be, what his or her motivations are. We have a number of injuries, though it’s unclear what the extent is. One shooter is dead, there were earlier reports of a second shooter —”

“What is happening?” Don yells from the middle of the newsroom. 

“Listen to Sloan,” Mac says. 

“Who are we sending to Connecticut?”

“Jim’s producing and Ricky is on air. They left twenty minutes ago; until then we have the local FOX affiliate and the AP. Kendra, let’s find some parents.”

“Maggie, call the local news affiliates and see what they’re saying,” he says, jumping into action. “And who’s on the phone with the state   
troopers? Tess, do it. Martin, call the governor’s office. And Jenna! Go online and grab the bios of everyone listed on the school website and the district’s website. I want contact info for their families. Phone numbers, addresses, we’re gonna need them. Let’s see if we can find the superintendent. Start a database of the local churches, their clergy, their phone numbers. Neal, is anything weird popping up that’s geotagged on Twitter in that area? A tweet, or something, that makes a threat? Are any parents or anyone tweeting from near the school about what they’re seeing?”

“I — That’s a good idea,” Neal says, hopping onto the computer. 

“And now, we’re taking a quick break, but we’ll be back in a few minutes with more information on the scene of a potentially very tragic story that’s unfolding in Connecticut,” Matt says from the TV. Hearing that, Don beelines into the studio where Sloan is shuffling papers and talking through her earpiece to a producer.

“Sloan!” he say, walking in quickly.

“Don! How was the deposition?”

“Curtailed. How’re you?”

“I’m fine. We don’t have many details yet. Are you —”

“I’m back there, yeah. You OK?”

“Let’s see how this goes,” she says, lips tight and thin. 

He nods, squeezing her hand briefly, then runs out of the studio. “Yo Charlie,” he says. “Sloan’s got a show at 2 and 4, and then she’ll be on again tonight. How long are you planning on keeping her on air? If this develops, she’ll need a break.” 

“We’ll know within the next hour if she’s going to be reporting any other news or if she’ll just be moderating a tragedy in real time. If she’s got other news I’ll pull her by 12:30 to prep, but otherwise she’s going to stay on. She’s on the scent.”

Don stares at him. That means Sloan will, if this is actually something terrible, be on air from 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. There’s only one thing that makes sense. “You’re auditioning her.”

Charlie shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “She’s talented, your wife. And you’re not half bad. I’m going to need you to run the war room.”   
“You want me to run the war room?” 

Charlie nods. “Now get me some fuckin’ information.” 

The war room is part command center, but it goes beyond that. They need to gather all available information, but they also keep an ear to the ground for what stories might develop, what other networks are covering. The war room shapes the narrative for the coming days and weeks; if anyone wins an award for crisis coverage, it’s because of the quality of their network’s war room. If he’s running the war room (and this turns out to be a thing), everyone in the newsroom, barring Charlie, will report to him for the day. 

“Don, the affiliate has footage!” Tamara says. 

“Get it on the link. Stream it into the control room; we might need to switch to them.”

“The school district’s website has announced that afternoon kindergarten is canceled,” Jenna says.

“You’re goddamn right it is. Listen, Neal!”

“Yeah?” 

“At the next break, get the affiliate updates to stream directly onto Chelsea and Sloan’s iPads.” 

“The kids are all at a firehouse. Nobody’s coming out of the school,” Tess says. 

“Don!” Maggie says. “The Courant is reporting that there’s one child dead.”

Well, fucking A. 

“Make sure that Chelsea, Matt, and Sloan know,” he says dully. 

“Ricky and Jim on the phone for you!” Tess shakes the phone in front of him.

“Thanks. Call in my staff, please. Jim? Ricky? What do you got?”

“The shooter’s dead,” Jim says unsparingly. “The local newspaper is called the Bee; their reporter is here and she’s tweeting. Multiple people have been shot. We’re hanging by a parent; they’re upset. There’s a lot of confusion. Everything’s in lockdown and they just took a guy out of the woods; he’s saying he’s not involved. It’s bad. It’s going to be bad.” 

“When are you going to be ready for a live shot?”

“Give us 15. Five for a phone call.” 

“Patching you through,” he hits a few buttons on the phone. “Jenna! Talk to the local hospitals. We need to find out what they know and how many injuries they’ve been told to expect.”

“Look at this photo, Don.” Tess swivels her computer, and it’s a bunch of screaming, crying kids, their hands on each other’s shoulders, tripping out of the school. He clenches his jaw in shock. It’s a gut-punch photo. Someone is going to win a lot of prizes for that.   
Chelsea and Sloan are on the phone with the mayor of Danbury, and the ticker is still scrolling through mindless news out of Hollywood and Chicago. “Someone turn that damn thing off!” he yells. 

“It’s Jim again.” Tess yells. 

“Yeah? Talk to me,” he grabs the phone. 

“I have a mom, with a second-grader and a fourth-grader. The kids say they’ll talk. Should we talk with them? Put em on camera?”

He hesitates. “How do they seem?”

“Fine. The younger one said her stomach hurt.”

“What does mom say?”

“She says she’ll let them be interviewed.”

“Keep her in the shot. Don’t press them. Pre-interview them, make sure they didn’t see any … anything.” He turns to see CNN interviewing the governor’s spokesperson. “What the fuck? Why aren’t we interviewing her?”

“We couldn’t reach her,” Kendra says.

“Kendra, she is clearly somewhere with a linkup. Somebody get the fucking press secretary for the governor on my airwaves in the next ten minutes, or they will be walking to goddamn Connecticut to bring the governor down to the studio.” 

Don’s covered all manner of terrible things before, from the war in Iraq to the London bombings to Gabby Giffords’ shooting. He lived in Little Italy on 9/11. But the next three hours are a neverending spiral into hell. He dispatches Elliot to Connecticut to broadcast that night from in front of St. Lima’s in Newtown. Around 1:50, as Sloan’s being prepped to fully take over coverage — she’s been commenting, but now she’ll be leading — Jim calls again. “I’ve got a police source saying the death toll is between 25 and 30. Most of them are kids; he’s saying as many as twenty. A parent here — I haven’t officially confirmed this — she says her neighbor’s daughter and half of that girl’s class is missing. She’s a first-grader, Don. I think most of them are first graders.” Jim’s voice cracks.

Don lets the phone dangle for a replying. “Thanks. Get it confirmed, will you?” He goes to find Sloan, as she’s the one that’s going to have to   
announce it.

He finds her to the side of the studio with Bethany and Liddy fluttering around her. “Give us a minute, everyone?” he says, and they scatter.

“Hey,” she says. “I haven’t seen you all day. How’re you holding up?” 

“How you’re holding up is the more important question,” he says seriously.

“I’m — It’d be nice to have more information, but I think I’m doing OK.”

He takes a deep breath. “Alright. I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to need to break the news in a minute, got it?” 

“How many?” 

“Jim’s got a police source. Twenty-five to 30 confirmed deaths. Most of them are children. Probably about 20. We’re working on getting it confirmed, but it sounds like a lot of them were in the same first grade class.”

She’s quiet for a second as the newsroom swirls furiously around them. At least five emotions cross her face, almost simultaneously, before she shuts her eyes for a second. Once they’re open, she licks her lips. “You’re running the war room?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you — can you be in my ear? Not for the whole show. Just the first fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.” 

She’s hustled onto the stage with a quick nod, and he jumps in back to headphone up. She’s a pro, managing the first ten minutes of updates with barely a comment or direction from him — she talks to the mayor of Stamford, she talks to the governor’s press secretary, she talks with Jane in Washington, who says that the president will be making an announcement probably within the hour. “He reacted first as a father, according to staff,” Jane says, like it’s fucking astonishing that anyone is reacting not as a father. He’s fucking reacting as a father, and they have exactly zero kids. 

At 2:07 Jim calls. “Federal law enforcement is confirming 18 to 20 are kids. You should report that. The parents here are saying they’re from   
the two first grade classes. One class, they got maybe ten kids out unharmed. Two died at the hospital. The other class — one girl.”

“One girl dead?”

“No,” Jim’s quiet. “One left.” 

Around five, he takes a break (Sloan is still on the air), and steps out onto the freezing-cold balcony. Will’s lurking there, smoking a cigarette. 

“Mac said you quit,” Don accuses.

Will holds out the carton. “Want one?” 

He takes it and the proffered lighter. “This fucking day, man,” he says, and the sentiment sounds trite. But it’s the only way he can process it. 

“You’ve run a damn good war room,” Will says. Don realizes that, besides talking to the high-level people, yelling at various Congresspeople about gun control, and waiting for his show, Will’s been basically useless all day. International stuff, terrorism, they might’ve put him on the desk, but this was just a smidge under his level. “And Sloan’s been good on air.”

He shivers as he takes a single drag. He never liked cigarettes. “Is Charlie auditioning her?”

“You’d have to ask Charlie.” 

Don stubs out the cigarette. “I should get back in there.”

“Don.”

“Yeah?”

“Sloan’s going to get off the desk at six but she’ll be back on with me for analysis at 8. She’s been the face of coverage, so you’ll need to have her on again at 10. After that, she’s going to have a period of shock and you’ll think she’s fine. And then she’s going to have a breakdown,” Will studies him. “Take care of her. And take care of yourself.” 

He and Mac co-produce each other’s shows, just to lighten the load a bit. The flow of information has slowed down but he’s still sending out producers and correspondents to chase down more information about the ghost-faced boy-killer, about the mother who bought him the gun, about the twenty kids who all seemed to have perfectly spunky smiles and missing front teeth. After Elliot says goodnight from Connecticut — he’ll be back on with ACN Morning in seven hours, talking about kids the same age as his daughter and about how they’ll never come home again — Mac hangs her headphones, then her head. “This day was the fucking shittiest,” she announces, then sits. “Go find Sloan. She’s going to need you. And you’re going to need her.” 

“Yeah,” he says.

He finds Sloan, predictably, on the floor of his office. She’s staring straight ahead, and just seems stunned into silence. “Fancy finding you   
here,” he says, sitting next to her. 

Suddenly, she bursts out into tears, the loud, angry, body-wracking type. “Christ, Don,” she says as he wraps his arms around her. “We’re never having children, you hear me? Never.” 

“You don’t mean that,” he says, though today, he agrees with her. 

“I’m going to close my eyes to go to sleep, and I will see those children’s faces. What the fuck is wrong with the world? I mean really. What. The. Fuck?”

“Let’s go home,” he says. “Come on.” 

She’s quiet for a second. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

They head home, to their apartment with no functional kitchen, with Christmas presents waiting to be wrapped, with the new dishes and furniture and all sorts of things in piles all around them. They linger quietly in the living room, ACN on in the background, and use water from the bathroom sink and a microwave to make tea and cocoa. 

“I keep thinking, about how Will’s career was made on 9/11. I could barely handle today. I don’t think I could’ve done that,” she says.

“You rose today and you would rise then.”

“Where were you on September 11th?” 

He pauses. “In Little Italy. I’d just finished up my fellowship at the Times and had just started J-school. I didn’t have class that morning and so ran down as soon as the first plane hit. My old editor called me up and asked if I wanted to write freelance. I did a bunch of coverage day-of but then ended up writing obituaries on commission. Worst fucking job. What about you? You were in Durham, weren’t you?” Despite being two years younger than him, his brain-trust wife had graduated college the year ahead of him and would have been deep into grad school at the time. 

She nods. “Yeah. But I had interned at Morgan Stanley that whole summer, and my internship had ended the week before. My dad came to town to help me move back, and he wanted to meet with his friend from grad school, Pete. Pete was a partner at Cantor Fitzgerald, and suggested that we meet at Windows on the World,” she sighs. “We ate there the last Friday it was open, before we got in our car to drive to North Carolina.”

“And Pete?”

“Died in the attacks,” she sighs. “As I said. I don’t think I could’ve done it.” 

They retreat to their bedroom, which feels safer, somehow, than the rest of the draining world. “I’m too wired to sleep,” Sloan says. “Can we watch a movie?”

It’s a great idea. “Yeah. What are you thinking?”

She considers. “Roman Holiday?”

“You hate that. You say it’s too sad.

“It’s about people that got a chance, Don,” she says, and he can’t argue with that. He pops it into the DVD player, and she curls into his side to watch. She barely makes it to Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn meeting before she passes out, her fingers curled tightly into his. He drifts off not soon after her, and they wake up there the next day.


	18. Without my feet from falling under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gang — another one-shot here. This one's a lot of Will/Mac in addition to Sloan, and includes a couple tiny winks to all the Sorkin diehards out there (let me know if you spot them!). It's a little cheesy, and there's definitely some set-up for later posts, but I'm personally a fan, since there's a lot of banter and I LOVE banter. Plus, it's significantly cheerier than the last posted one. Because puppies. And champagne.
> 
> Also, this has never happened before (and will never happen again), but this chapter, chronologically, follows the one preceding it. So that's cool, I guess.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

January

“What do you think of this one?” Don asks, holding up his iPad, as Sloan applies her makeup. “He’s pretty cute, right?” 

She turns to examine the photo and finds herself face-to-face with an (admittedly adorable) golden retriever. “Not bad.”

“But you want a poodle-mix,” Don surmises. It’s not a difficult deduction, since she’s made the same assertion every single time he’s shown her a potential puppy. 

“They’re hypoallergenic and adorable,” she insists. She’s not sure why he’s so gung-ho about a damn dog — personally, she feels her plate is pretty damn full, with the job and the apartment renovation and the just-being-married. She’s still pretty unused to the just-being-married side of things and she wouldn't mind some extra time to adjust. So if she’s going to be waking up an hour earlier than she already does to take a dog out, she wants it to be freaking adorable. And not shed all over her new couch. And not make her sneeze. “I don’t care what type of -oodle he or she is. Goldendoodle, labradoodle, jackadoodle, snickerdoodle —”

“You made that up.”

“Did I? And if I did, does it really sound more ridiculous than goldendoodle?”

“Point Sabbith,” he concedes. “It’s going to be hard to get a rescue and an -oodle dog, though. The -oodle types are usually from a breeder’s.” 

This is where she draws the line. “No, we have to get a rescue,” she says. “There are four million dogs and cats euthanized yearly. We’re not adding to the population of dogs when there are perfectly lovely, lovable ones that we can save.” 

“There are millions of kids in foster care too. By that logic, we should adopt when we’re thinking about having kids.”

“That’s not the same, since they’re not shelving kids in shelters until they’re ready to kill them, but I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “What’s our timeframe for that, by the way?” If he wants a dog now that might mean he wants a kid next and she's definitely not quite ready for that. 

“For what?”

“For kids.”

“Oh,” he considers. “I don’t know? We said two, right?”

“No more than two,” she insists. She’s not going through labor more than twice. Hell, she’s not sure she’s going through it more than once. 

“‘Kay,” he shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’d like to have had at least one by the time I’m forty.” 

He just turned thirty-five in September. Plenty of time. Thank god. “Ok,” she says. 

“That sound good?”

“Sounds great,” she smiles. He tilts his head, slightly confused, and waits for her to continue. “If we’re getting a dog, I think we need to figure out how to parent a dog first. And before kids, we need to you know, finish the kitchen, figure out our careers, and —”

“Figure out how to be married?” he finishes.

“Yes,” she smiles. “Exactly. We’re doing OK with that, right?”

“I think so. Do you think so?”

“I think so too,” she smiles. “Alright. Do I —”

“Look gorgeous? Yes,” he smiles. He stands to kiss her before moving around her. He’s been waiting for at least twenty minutes and he’s ready to get going. “Come   
on, let’s get going.”

“You know, if you want to sell the whole ‘you look gorgeous’ thing, you might at least pretend like you wanted to skip this shindig and just have sex with me,” she complains as she grabs her clutch and black trench.

“Sloan, you look gorgeous, I would love to throw you on the bed, rip that dress —”

“This dress is separates, and don’t rip the them. They’re Tory Burch.” It’s one of her favorite outfits, though she rarely has the occasion to wear the hunter-and-navy   
jacquard silk shell top and matching mini skirt. The back of the top is folded origami-napkin style, so there’s a solid triangle of skin exposed on her lower back. She’s got hunter velvet Jimmy Choos and a chunky sapphire necklace on to match, too. She looks hot.

“How much did we pay for the … separates?” he asks suspiciously. He hasn’t trusted her with money since he found out her couch cost seven thousand dollars. His wariness is, quite frankly, both hilarious and horrifying. 

“We didn’t pay for them; I did, with my own money, which I earned.” When he raises an eyebrow — they agreed to merge bank accounts — she adds, “Also, I bought it two years ago.” 

“Fine. Much as I would like to toss you on this bed and then carefully remove the separates without damaging them, and then also hang them up in their exact spot in the closet before rocking your world, I think you need to go to this more than I do.” 

“It’s Will and Mac’s engagement party; not only do we have to go, I want to go.”

“I want to go,” he says. “I didn’t think that was in question. But you have to go, since you helped address the vellum invitations and are making a speech and everything. I just want to go for the booze and food and company.”

“This argument is getting stupid,” she says.

“Most of our arguments are, when you think about it.” 

“No, Ghiradelli versus Godiva was important,” she deadpans. 

He kisses her with a little bit more heat than is strictly necessary. “I am absolutely fine not going,” he says with a smirk. His fingers drum lightly on the exposed skin   
on her back. “Just for the record. Say the word, and I will carefully remove the separates.” 

She whimpers. Dammit. “We should go.” 

He smirks. “Thought so.” He takes her jacket from her and helps her shrug it on. “You got your speech?”

“In my jacket. I might just wing it, though. I’ve always been great with the improv.” She’s still absolutely unclear why Mac asked her to do this.

“Sure, Tina Fey. Please don’t.” 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re exiting the cab at the MOMA, which is lit up like a Christmas tree. Don lets out a low whistle. “How many people did they end up   
inviting?”

“After Lady McHale saw the list? About three-fifty.” 

“What the hell is the wedding going be like?” 

“If Kenzie gets her way? Nothing like this.”

“I don’t think I even know three hundred fifty people,” Don says, amazed.

“That’s probably true.” 

She wants to find Kenzie, but they’re temporarily sidetracked by Maggie yelling, “Don! Sloan!” as they enter. She’s with most of the NewsNight junior staff, and looks   
great in a sparkly silver dress. Her hair, dyed strawberry blonde at the insistence of Rebecca Halliday, has finally grown out a bit, and the overall look is very elfin-ishly   
cute. They air-kiss everyone — Martin has a very young-looking date; Neal’s with a girl whose name undoubtedly has three extra e’s; Kendra and Tamara are there   
with their husbands; Gary and Tess are both alone and double-fisting shots from the open bar — and squeal over outfits. Maggie has brought Lisa-the-roommate as   
her date, and Don greets her warmly. 

“Has anyone seen the guests of honor?” Sloan asks.

“I think they’re over by the six-foot-tall flower displays,” Maggie says with a point. “But that was five minutes ago so they could be anywhere, really.”

“Hey everyone,” Jim says, coming up from behind and looking smart in a tux. Hallie, in a short, emerald-green grecian dress, is stunning right beside him. There’s   
another round of air-kisses and, as the group shuffles to accommodate the additions, Sloan finds herself next to Hallie, with whom she’s never interacted. 

“How are you liking New York?” she finally asks. She knows … next to nothing about Hallie, or how long she’s been in the city, or what’s she doing. Does she have a   
job? Maybe she has a job. 

“It’s great!” Hallie smiles. “I’m working from home, which is a little strange, honestly. I’m not used to that much freedom. But otherwise it’s great.”

“That’s great,” Sloan says, finding she has nothing more to say. “When I was writing my thesis in graduate school, I worked alone a lot. It was fun.” 

“I need to go to the restroom. Anybody?” Maggie announces.

“I’m in,” Hallie chimes, and quickly excuses herself. 

Don appears at her shoulder. She smiles at him. “Let’s go find Mac and Will,” she says. While these people are lovely, they’re coworkers, and not even the ones she’s   
closest to. She wants Elliot and Charlie if she can't have Will and Kenzie. “I want to say hi to them. And test out some of my best lines on them.”

“The first part sounds good,” he says, as he watches Hallie and Maggie wander off. “That’s really strange, right?” he asks as they leave.

“What? The two of them going to the bathroom together?”

“Yes.”  
“No stranger than me and Maggie being able to work together,” she replies.

Don considers this. “No, it’s stranger,” he pronounces.

“How do you figure?” 

“It’s more of a ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’ situation.” 

“You think Maggie and Hallie are enemies?” 

He appraises her. “I just think it’s strange.” 

“You remember you used to date Maggie, right? And I made a move on you when you two were dating? now we’re perfectly friendly with her?” She feels absolutely zero   
jealousy or competition toward Maggie. She hasn’t for ages, certainly not since long before she started to date Don. She likes Maggie. Most days, she barely   
remembers that Maggie and Don dated; that they had, in fact, dated for more than eighteen months, whereas she and Don are somewhere around … thirteen months   
together? Fourteen, depending on who is counting.

“Actually, barely. I barely remember that,” he confesses. Alright. Him too. “And I’m not sure that was a ‘move.’”

“It was totally a move. But I get along fine with Maggie,” she points out. “I like Maggie.” 

“Yeah, because you have no reason to believe that I might have something going on with Maggie.”

“And you think Jim and Maggie might have something going on, even though Jim and Hallie have been together for what? A year?” More than that, actually, she thinks.   
She’s pretty sure they started dating a solid month or two before she and Don did. 

“I think whatever Maggie and Jim had stopped before it got a chance to start, and that’s much different than ‘dated for a while and mutually saw it as a colossally bad   
idea.’” 

“Maybe they’re all just more evolved than you.” 

Don laughs uproariously at that. 

They find Mac and Will then, finally. Mac looks positively gorgeous in a structured, tea-length black strapless dress with white edging and a large white bow peplumed   
off the right hip. Sloan would put money on it being either vintage Chanel or Dior. Will looks stupid-handsome in his best tux.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Kenzie says, her tone betraying just a hint too much earnestness. Sloan cocks her head to study her, but Mac simply purses her lips and   
shakes her head. Oh. Kenzie waves over two older people who are the definition of “distinguished” — he’s wearing a cummerbund and bowtie, while she’s wearing   
earrings that look like they could be part of the crown jewels. “Mum, Dad, come here. I’d like you to meet two of our dearest friends, Sloan Sabbith, and her husband   
Don Keefer. I hired Don fifteen years ago to be my intern, and he used to work on Will’s show before getting his own. And Sloan’s ACN’s senior financial   
correspondent and she’s been absolutely indispensable planning all this. Don, Sloan, my parents, Sir Edwin and Lady Maureen McHale.” 

“Very nice to meet you,” Sir Edwin says. The family resemblance between Kenzie and her dad is striking. “Sabbith, and you’re a financial reporter — any relation to the   
economist Thomas Sabbith?” 

Oh dear God. “He’s my father actually,” she smiles. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve had the good fortune to meet a few times at Davos,” Sir Edwin says. Of course they met at Davos. “A very sharp thinker.” 

“He was my first and best teacher,” she smiles. 

“Yes, his beliefs on poverty reduction and the responsibilities of the First World throughout globalization are quite powerful,” Sir Edwin smiles. “But you decided not to   
follow in his footsteps?”

“Dad, Sloan has two Ph.D.s in economics. She just got bored in the private sector,” Kenzie interrupts. 

Sloan smiles. “I think the study of economics is incredibly important, but most people are intimidated by it. I like the news because it allows me to — hopefully —   
explain to people why this field matters to them. And I keep an office at Columbia to do some teaching and research, so I get the best of both worlds.”

“Very impressive,” Edwin smiles. “Now, Don — how was my Mackenzie as a boss?” 

As the two of them start trading Mac stories, Maureen smiles at Sloan. “Sloan, when did you have your wedding?” 

“Just last year, actually. Still haven’t even had our honeymoon,” she smiles.

“No, I mean — congratulations, obviously, first — I meant the time of year. What month?”

“Oh. September,” she smiles.

“September is a lovely month, Mackenzie,” Maureen suggests. “You could get married then.” 

“Don and Sloan gave us eighteen hours’ notice and got married at City Hall in front of thirty people,” Mac smiles. 

“That sounds … very low-stress,” Maureen smiles calmly, not responding to her daughter’s goading. 

“I don’t know about that. It was during Genoa, Benghazi, and the election. We’d gotten two hours of sleep the night before we got engaged. Pretty sure that had   
something to do with it,” Sloan smiles, and Mac chokes on her drink a little bit. “But it was still lovely, and exactly what we wanted.”

They chat briefly with Charlie, Nancy, Leona, Rebecca Halliday, and Reese, and she finds Chelsea and Marc and spends a solid twenty minutes catching up. Marc and   
Don get along reasonably well, which is always great, though he’s still incredibly self-conscious around Chelsea’s parents. They then head into the atrium, where   
rectangular tables are set up in a square pinwheel, not unlike the figures made on the old ‘Snake’ game she played on her old Nokia phone ten years ago. It’s a bit of a   
maze, but beyond gorgeous: There’s a lot of candlelight and calla lilies and crystal, and it’s enough to make her stop walking temporarily to take it all in. Don wraps   
an arm around her middle and kisses her neck. “Pretty romantic,” he murmurs into her ear.

“They did good,” she agrees. 

“There better be some dancing afterwards,” he says. 

Since she’s got one of the three speeches, they’re seated at the center table, with Mac and Will, their families (Will’s sisters aren’t particularly friendly-looking), and   
Charlie and Nancy. All the other tables spiral out from them. She sees Mayor Bloomberg take his seat next to Anthony, Huma, and the Clintons. Leonard Cohen is next   
to Brian Williams and Anderson Cooper. After drinks are poured and the first round of appetizers distributed, Mac’s dad stands and welcomes everyone, making a   
small joke about how long it took them to get here, and talks about ten-year-old Kenzie’s very specific thoughts on her own wedding day (it involved ponies).   
Charlie’s up next, with four or five jokes and then a heartfelt “thank god you guys got it together” moment. 

Then it’s her. Don squeezes her hand, and she kisses his cheek swiftly before she stands. God, she hates public speaking. “Hi, everyone, I’m Sloan Sabbith, and I work   
at ACN with both Mackenzie and Will,” she smiles. “And I also count them as two of my closest friends. While I have several stories that I could share, I’ll keep that to a   
minimum today, for Will’s sanity,” there are a couple chuckles. “How we became friends, though, is illustrative, I think. When Kenzie first came back to ACN three years   
ago, she appointed me her best friend. I didn’t really have a choice; in fact, I tried to get out of it. No luck, and thank god,” she smiles. “Because I don’t think I have a   
friend who is more honest or loyal. Whether it’s attending my own wedding on literally ten hours notice or letting me actually say whatever I want about the economy   
on her show — though sometimes that’s because she doesn’t know the difference between micro- and macroeconomics — she’s the type of twice-in-a-lifetime friend   
you want with you in a foxhole. Becoming friends with Will, though, that was significantly harder. We worked together for two years before he said something remotely   
personal to me. And I’m pretty sure the first personal thing he said to me was that I was an idiot. I’m not sure how I broke through to him, but I’m certainly grateful   
that I did. I’m not always sure he is, but I am. He’s a mentor, but he’s also a confidante and a friend, and I wouldn’t be remotely close to where I am, professionally or personally, without him,” she pauses and looks out. “If you’re here, you probably know at least a big of the saga of Will and Mac. How they had to lose each other to find themselves, and how finding their way back to one another took longer than I think either of them would have liked. It was not nearly as romantic as it sounds. As someone who loved them both and wanted the best for them, it sometimes was painful to watch them feel their way toward each other; they were like the proverbial blind people, feeling the exact same thing but each determining it was something different. And they were so stubborn —”

“Get to the part where we don’t sound like idiots!” Will calls out, faux-irritated. Everyone, including Sloan, laughs.

“Getting there,” she says. “I promise. Anyways, one of the best things about the ACN newsroom is that, if you hang out there long enough, you learn a lot. Which isn’t surprising; everyone is actually, generally pretty smart and decently well-educated. What is surprising is that you learn a lot about science — physics and astronomy and chemistry in particular — since we’re all a bunch of nerds. Nobody was actually smart enough to hack a Ph.D. in astrophysics, but there are plenty of Carl Sagan wannabes. So one day I learned — I think it was from Charlie — about binary stars: Two stars who orbit each other. Not only do they spend their entire lifetimes dancing around and with each other, but their gravity, their actions, drive the other. They’re interdependent, in the truest sense of the word. And because they are so closely entwined, their light is brighter than either would be alone. And that, to me, is kind of the essence of Will and Mac: constantly dancing with one another, driving each other’s actions, and making each other shine brighter. So I'd like to raise a glass to Will and Mackenzie, in whose combined glow many of us are lucky to live." The room choruses, "to Will and Mackenzie," and she takes a triumphant seat. 

"That was great," Don says with a smile and a hand-squeeze. 

"Not bad, Sabbith," Will says gruffly. 

"Try not to melt into a puddle of tears, bro," she smirks before giving him a kiss on his cheek.

The food is delicious, of course, two more courses followed by an assortment of desserts, and then a band strikes up for dancing and more cocktails. It's fancier than almost every wedding she has been to. Don, who secretly wants to be Fred Astaire, takes her out for a spin, but when they come off the dance floor, she notices Will talking with Chuck Schumer and RFK Junior. She casts her eyes around for Mac but can't find her. She checks with Kristin Gillibrand, Savannah and her boyfriend Mike, and freaking Lord John Marbury (who is actually a total ass), but they haven’t seen her either. After a few more scans, she realizes that Mac is nowhere to be found. 

Grabbing a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter (dear god they’re seriously just handing out $200 bottles of Cristal), she goes down a few progressively darker and emptier hallways, searching for Kenzie. Nothing. She can barely hear the sounds of the party when she turns a corner to a wide hallway overlooking the courtyard and finally notices Mac, half in shadows, sitting down on the low steps to the garden and leaning against a railing. A martini is next to her. 

“Surprised to find you out here,” Sloan says lightly from behind her friend. Mac turns with a start. “You know, that whole party inside, all those people — they’re here for you, you know that, right? They might start to miss you.” 

Mac smiles wanly. “Yes, Sloan, I am aware of that. I handled the invitation list.” 

She sits down next to Kenzie. She sets down the swiped bottle of champagne. “It’s OK, we can hang out here, though. Make it a more exclusive thing.”

Kenzie sighs and finishes her drink before tipping some champagne into the glass. “Good speech today.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” 

“Do they?”

“They pay me some of the bucks.”

Kenzie laughs, before sighing deeply. “I know I should be in there, smiling and laughing —”

“And hanging out with your fiance,” Sloan adds.

“And that.”

“Is everything OK? Because I just made a speech that basically implied you’re the most perfect soulmates, ever. And it was a speech not entirely divorced from reality.” 

Kenzie shifts again. “I wouldn’t say ‘perfect’ but at this point I think we’re the only people who can tolerate each other.”

“That is also probably true. So what’s bugging you?”

“It’s not that I’m not excited to get married to Will —”

“Thank God for that,” Sloan interjects. The situation desperately needs some levity, because it is going south, fast. “That ring is expensive. At least twice as much as   
mine,” she ribs. 

“Shut up, and stop interrupting. I am excited to get married. I’m so excited. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for … ages. Seriously. Ages. But everyone — led by my mother —   
just wants to know one thing: When are we getting married? And every time they ask when the wedding is, I … seize up,” Kenzie shakes her head. “I freeze. I don’t   
know, and I don’t care. I don’t have any opinion on flowers, I don’t know how many people we’ll want to invite, and god knows I don’t want three hundred-fifty. I don’t   
know if I want to get married in the spring or in the fall. I never thought I would have a wedding; more importantly, I never thought we would have a wedding. And I   
can’t help but wonder if, after nine years, we’re rushing it.” Mac looks absolutely miserable as she slides a hand over the right side of her face. 

Sloan wonders, not for the first time, if she’s in over her head, being friends with Kenzie. Like she said, they’d bonded instantly, once Mac appointed Sloan her best   
friend: Both understood being raised abroad and in high-pressure families; both worked harder than they needed to in life; both were excellent at their jobs but a bit   
wreck-y in their personal lives, and not in an adorable, rom-com way. But Kenzie — just like Don, funnily enough — has a fierce and abiding guilt complex. Both have a surprisingly deep pessimism that they disguise well with sarcasm and competency but is always just a little bit beyond Sloan’s comprehension. They both punish   
themselves unnecessarily for their mistakes while allowing others leeway and grace. Neither views a happy ending as something they deserve and should pursue;   
instead, both of them have a sort of smug acceptance about the inevitability of bad things happening. Don’s changed since they got together; he openly cares more,   
he tries. That’s always enough for her, though she knows at his core he’s always prepared for the other shoe to drop. (If she has a problem with not expecting too   
much, Don has the problem of expecting too little.) And Kenzie might be exuberantly hopeful about America and journalism and human nature but she came back and   
took two and a half years of Will’s bullshit when all reason and logic dictated she should have moved on and told him fuck you on the way out. She may have stayed   
partly out of love for Will and partly due to loyalty to Charlie, sure, but Sloan’s pretty sure 90 percent of the reason why was self-inflicted punishment. 

She wonders if Kenzie was this way before the breakup, before her self-imposed exile to the Middle East, before whatever traumas she experienced there. Don would   
know. Don knew her beforehand, knew Mac-and-Will One-point-oh. She should ask him. But now, she’s here and he’s not. 

“I mean, you went from kinda hating each other’s guts to engaged in five minutes,” Sloan says. “It’s OK if you want to get used to sharing a bathroom again.”

“Sloan, we’re hiding out during a 350-person engagement party at the MOMA. All of these people are asking perfectly reasonable questions. And it’s perfectly   
reasonable for them to expect answers to these questions.” 

“So you say you don’t know, and you’re looking forward to getting a chance to plan it.”

“And then what? What if I don’t want to plan it?”

“You will. Eventually. You might not want all this … frippery —”

“Frippery?”

“Don likes to show off his 780 verbal, OK? It rubs off.” 

Kenzie laughs, and then says, “I don’t think I want to.”

“Get married?”

“No — I think I want that. I definitely think I want that. After all this time, I should, and I do. But … It just seems off. Too fast, maybe? For crying out loud, eight weeks   
ago he fired me. And now we’re throwing an engagement party that costs more than 100 grand at the MOMA.” 

“Yeah. It’s a lot to adjust to,” she muses, then waits a beat. “Have you talked to Will?”

“Are you kidding me? He’s so worried about me leaving now that if I bring it up, he’ll react poorly,” Mac sighs. 

“I dunno. I’ve heard open communication is something to value in a relationship.” 

“You know, I’m beginning to see Jim’s point that you two are smug about the whole perfect relationship thing.”

“We don’t have anywhere close to a perfect relationship, and you of all people know that,” Sloan rebukes. “The only thing we have going for us is that we’re boring.”

“True. And relatively good-looking. That probably doesn’t hurt,” Mac says, then sighs. “Do I have to go back in?”

“No, it’s your party so you can do what you want,” Sloan says. She’s freezing, though, so she hopes Kenzie chooses inside. “Just — remember. When he asked you to   
marry him, when he stood in front of you with a stupidly large ring and said, This is it, forever — you said yes. Sometimes, the first reaction is the right one.” 

Mac sighs and pulls herself up by the railing. “You and your wisdom,” she grumbles.

“So you’ll appreciate this,” she says as they start to head in. “Don wants to get a dog.” 

“You should totally get a dog!” Mac says. “You’re the only people I know who can get a dog; nobody else is responsible enough. Including me and Will, you just heard   
my entire crisis of confidence. Please get a dog and name him Rufus. He should be shaggy.” 

“Do you not — oh wait, you don’t,” she remembers.

“What?”

“I asked you about this already — you telling me to move in with Don so that we could get a dog, that’s how we ended up getting engaged.”

“I have absolutely no recollection of this,” Mac says decisively. “Though I have claimed credit for you two getting together for years.” 

“I know.”

“Do you not want a dog?”

“Kenz, I know we just got over that we’re boring and attractive, but I’m still figuring out how to be married. And we have an apartment to renovate. We just got a   
working kitchen, and I don’t think we’re ready. And the worst part is that I’ve told Don all this, and he totally gets it — and he still thinks we’re ready for a dog.”

“So? You probably can handle a dog.” 

“Well, yes, but are we ready? Do I want a dog?”

“If you don’t want a dog, you should say no.”

“It’s complicated.”

“No it’s not. Didn’t you just tell me that sometimes you’ve got to say yes?” 

She stops and furrows her brow. “Don’t turn my words against me, Kenzie,” she mocks. 

“Why wouldn’t you want a dog? They’re adorable, lovable, easier to deal with than a partner most of the time and — oh.”

“What?”

“It’s just, a dog, they’re the gateway.”

“It’s not pot, Kenzie, it’s a dog.” 

“No, not the gateway drug, the gateway to kids.” 

“No they’re not.”

“Sloan, I’ve read two women’s magazines in my life, and I think I can confidently say that everyone else, besides you and me, knows that dogs are the gateway to   
children. Don wants kids.” 

“Yes, in the future, but don’t be ridiculous.”

“Alright,” Kenzie smirks. “Get the dog then.”

“I told you, it’s been four months, four very busy months —”

“Say yes, Sloan,” Kenzie’s smirk widens. 

“Fine. I’m looking forward to attending your 500-person society wedding this June,” Sloan retorts. They’re back inside, with the lights and the candles and the milling   
people and the warmth. 

“Bite me,” Kenzie says, merry at having the tables turned.

“Gladly,” Will says.

“Ew,” Sloan says.

He kisses her lightly. “Where’d you two get off to?”

“I needed air. And girl talk,” Kenzie says honestly. “I’m sorry for abandoning you.” 

“No worries,” Will says. “Sloan, Don is looking for you.” 

“He found me,” she smiles as he approaches with another glass of champagne. 

They dance and drink the night away, finally tumbling into bed slightly after three and falling asleep immediately. The next morning, she considers waking him up for   
sex, but decides on a run instead (When she comes home to him making eggs in his boxer, then she jumps him.). As they’re enjoying the cold omelettes, she says,   
“Maybe we should go to that dog rescue and look at dogs today.”

“You sure?” he says, surprised. “You’ve seemed kind of …”

 

“Kind of what?”

“Ambivalent?”

“I’m not; I like dogs. It’s just … last night, Kenzie said that dogs were gateways.”

“Gateways to what? Love and happiness and unadulterated adoration and acceptance?”

“No, Timmy Martin. To kids.”

“Oh. I would like to first point out that Mac’s marrying Will, so I already have qualms about her judgement.”

“Point Keefer,” she says, because it’s true. “But … It’s not some precursor to kids?”

“Well, first, I thought we did want kids? In a bit. We just discussed this, like, last night.”

“Right. By the time you’re 40. It’s not a, you know, a dog this year, kids next year, a house in Westchester the next?”

“OK, never a house in Westchester,” he says.

“Good.”

“Elliot would mock me too much.”

“Well, you’ve made fun of them a lot over the past four years.” 

“Rightfully so, though. And Sloan, a kid by 40, is what I said. In a while. The dog is … because they’re fun. I had one growing up, and they’re great, and I think having a dog is the type of thing we can do, together, right now. Not like a … gateway, or whatever ridiculous term Mac used.”

“OK,” she considers, then decides to take her own advice. “Let’s go look, today.”

“You sure? I don’t want you going all, ‘your dog shit on the floor’ like it’s not a joint thing, in two months.”

“I said look, not adopt immediately,” she says. “But yeah. That rescue’s out on Long Island, right? We can take your car.”

“It’s our car now, you know.”

“Fine. You’re driving our car.”

While she insisted they were just looking, as soon as she saw Clementine — the year-old poodle/golden retriever/Irish setter mix whose owners had moved to Australia — she immediately changed her mind. The overgrown puppy had a curly, medium-apricot coat, with patches of gold and cream on her breastbone and face, and white paws. “Can we keep her?” she asks, entranced, as the dog licks her hands and face. 

“You sure?” Don says with a smirk. “It could be a gateway, you know.”

She turns to the shelter manager plaintively. “Please? Can we take her home right now?”

“You don’t want to think an extra day?” Don checks, seriously worried about her one-eighty. 

She shakes head. “Sometimes, you gotta say yes, Don,” she smiles.


	19. It's better to live than to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, hope everyone is having a great September! I'm excited to post this one, which I've been holding onto a while. It's Sloan and Don's first huge fight (yes, excited about that :) ). This also, as you'll probably notice, takes place throughout the episode, "One Step Too Many," and many of the conversations are pulled in whole or in part from that. The only things that have changed from the show are that a.) Sloan and Don started dating after 2x04 (in November or December, depending on who is counting), and that the sex-picture scandal never happened (strictly because I couldn't figure out how to work it in w/ the long-term ramifications; I liked the storyline). The rest of season 2, though, has happened.
> 
> It certainly seems like a lot fewer people are reading this, which is completely unsurprising (we're about to hit 100K words, what!), but for those who are still reading, I really appreciate it! Thanks for sticking with this ridiculous journey.

March

"Got a sec?" Sloan asks with a quick knock at his open door.

"For you? Always," he smiles.

She normally would accuse him of being a 'flatterer,' but instead she just sits down and sighs. It's hours before her show, so she's dressed in a simple black wool shirt, boots, and jeans. "I'm having trouble with Zane again. And yes, I'm aware that I'm always having trouble with Zane."

"But you're delightful so it's not your fault," he points out.

"Exactly," she says in such a duh voice that he wonders if he remembers them having this conversation months ago. "There are two things, actually."

"What's the first?"

"He doesn't think student debt is newsy enough, but that one's fine. Well, it's not fine, but I know how to handle it — start getting it in a few end segments until it's on the agenda. I just need to do it in a way that doesn't turn me into the Stephen Colbert of daytime cable."

"He said that?"

"While I have many thoughts about Zane, I think he was trying to be funny, but failed. Obviously. I'm letting it go and you should too."

"I don't like that, at all — professionally or personally — but I'm not a prick like him, so I'll say OK."

"And the second is that several companies are benefiting from Saudi Arabia's tacit investments in an insurgency group in Syria. They're good buys."

"But for some reason you're upset at this group and don't think they should buy it? Gotta say, I can't argue with their logic that Bashar al-Assad should go."

"Have you read about ISI? They're awful. Links to al-Qaeda, funding other terrorists organizations, the whole nine yards. They're threatening the stability of the entire region, and yes, I'm implying that the Middle East is stable. But they're the enemy of the enemy for a lot of Middle Eastern countries, including Saudi Arabia, so they're getting funding from private donors."

"So you want to tell people that in the investment report?"

"Exactly."

"And he doesn't want you to say that?"

"He says it's outside the scope of the show. At face value, it's a good stock."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"And I assume you have proof — maybe something from the State Department — certifying that ISI is, at the very least, a threat they're taking very seriously and isn't just a fringe group of Looney Toon terrorists? And something certifying that they've got a direct link to these oil stocks?"

"They're dangerous, Don."

"So they're a terrorist organization? With links to the oil companies?"

"They're designated as an affiliate —"

"And Saudi Arabia is actually letting their companies buy oil from al Qaeda?"

"An affiliate, and its legal environment facilitates money laundering, and the splintering of private funding to rebel groups is only making them stronger."

It's not enough. "Sloan, come on, you know what I have to say. Until you can prove a link this is pretty tenuous. And Zane does kind of have a point about the scope of the show. It's geared toward investors. Can you cover the other stuff on your NewsNight segment, maybe something on the economics of terrorism? And we can do a feature on student-loan debt — that's the kind of stuff our audience would love."

She glares. "First, traitor."

"Hey, I think you should report him to HR for the Stephen Colbert line."

"Second, you think I should tell people to invest at four p.m., then tell them not to invest at eight? I'd lose credibility."

"Then you need to talk to Zane?"

"Don, can I — oh good, you're both here. Actually, are you ever apart?" Mac bounces into the room.

"I'm on the air for two hours a day, and he is not?" Sloan points out, slightly confused.

"And I stay two hours later to produce Elliot's show, and she does not," Don adds. It's definitely stretching truth quite a bit.

"That's a lie, Keefer. As you know from the fiasco with the Occupy the Rod up my Ass girl, we've been working on a highly sensitive story for the last several months."

"That's still going on?" he's a little amazed — he assumed the story had just fizzled out.

"Yes."

"You haven't said anything about it."

"I'm crafty, but nobody ever seems to think so," she sighs. "Anyways, I'd like for you both, plus Jim, to serve as the Red Team. I trust you immensely and think you're the right people for the job."

"Absolutely," Sloan says, as he echoes, "Of course."

"Great," she says. "The first meeting is at eleven today. I'd appreciate your discretion — we're not ready to tell anyone, including Elliot or Will."

"Will doesn't know what's going on?" Sloan asks.

"No, and I intend to keep it that way for some time longer." Mac heads towards the door. "Anyways. Thanks so much. I'll see you both at eleven."

Sloan turns toward him. "Was that really strange?"

He shrugs. "Guarantee it's not as strange as whatever we're about to walk into."

Two hours later, as he and Sloan are fact-checking reindeer and Mac and Jerry Dantana and Charlie try to convince them that U.S. Marines dumped a bunch of sarin on Pakistani civilians, he wishes that statement was a little less apt.

After the Red Team meeting it's one of those clusterfuck type of days where he barely see Sloan outside of half-watching her shows. After Right Now, he can't find her anywhere — not his office, or Mac's, or even her own. He remember when she first started at ACN, before she felt comfortable stealing his space and before Mac arrived, she liked the balcony. He tries that next, and see her sitting on the picnic table, her back to the door and her Red Team binder open on her lap.

"That whole out-like-a-lamb thing is bullshit," Don announces morosely, walking up to kick at the railing.

Sloan sighs and flips a page without looking up. "That refers to the weather not to —"

"Journalists accusing the government of murder by sarin? It's still pretty lionlike," he replies. Then, "You know, you really shouldn't be reading that in the office. People who shouldn't might see it."

"That's why I brought it out here," she smiles. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," he says. It's nearly midnight. "Your place or mine?"

"Mmmmm… mine."

"I'm beginning to think you don't like my place."

"I like your place just fine."

"But?"

"There doesn't have to be a but."

"There wasn't. But —"

"Ah ha."

"Quiet, you. I was just going to say that you have more clothes at my place."

"And?"

She shrugs. "And I like your place just fine. I do, I really do. I think mine is a little nicer, though, objectively."

"Oh, you do?" he says, mostly teasing, as they grab their coats from her office.

"It's just, I decorated. And I have a nicer kitchen," she tries, tucking her tablet into her purse and turning to him.

"For all the cooking that we do?"

"We can go to your place. I really don't care. I just have the shirt I want to wear tomorrow at my place."

He swings an arm around her shoulder and kisses her temple. He's ragging her — her place is more spacious, her elevators run faster, and she's got sick views off Lower Manhattan. Plus, when they stay at hers, his place stays cleaner, and he has to pay the MerryMaids less. "Honestly? I don't care either."

She pokes him, hard, right in the soft spot under his rib cage, making him gasp in surprise. "Mean," she insists, then leans up to kiss the place where his jaw meets his neck. He loves when she's in flats (it's admittedly rare), when she's this tucked-in-able size.

Thirty minutes later, they're in bed, him with a cup of cocoa, her with tea, both reading through their binders. "Do you really think this is true?" she asks.

He flips away from the Hamni8 tweets. "What's here is … compelling."

"I'm not asking that. Step outside of the evidence. Apply logic. Does this make any sense?"

He shrugs. "I don't know enough yet. I do know, though, if we run this, we better be not only damn sure, but convinced that it's in the best interests of the country to share this."

"Yeah," she smacks the book shut and tosses it on the floor. "I'm not thinking about it anymore. Can I hit the light?"

He's about to say no — he needs to read everything for the sixth time — when he yawns. With a giggle, she jumps out of bed to turn off the lights, then kisses him, flops over, and falls fast asleep.

The next day he notices Sloan's show has started as he's flicking through wire reports and daily coverage to figure out what to present at the first Right Now rundown (in related news, he's running behind again). He hasn't seen her all day, so he turns up the volume to listen. She's going on about the European recession and labor strikes — basically, what he can infer is they're fucked. He's not really paying attention when she says, "Finally, let's turn to 'Watch That Stock.' Today, we're discussing two oil stocks that have performed exceptionally over the last several weeks. However, investors should be aware that their profitability could be due in part to the rise of a terrorist group in Syria."

Jesus Christ. His neck snaps up as she briefly details the relationship. "What the fuck?" he yells, throwing a pen in the direction of the TV.

"Everything OK?" Neal pops his head in.

"Yeah," he puts his head briefly in his hands before looking up. "Sloan just decided to cannibalize her career, no big deal."

"Did she start speaking Japanese again?"

"No."

"If that was survivable, this is too," Neal says helpfully, popping back out.

He's not going to get involved, since this is between Sloan and Zane, but he tunes his ears in for the argument. It starts at 2:32 as Zane's shouts emanate from the newsroom: "What the fucking fuck, Sloan?"

He's too far away to hear Sloan's response, but then Zane yells, "I don't fucking care! Keefer!"

For crying out loud. He steps out of his office, and Zane and Sloan, Zane looking apoplectic and Sloan looking stoney and rage-y, are standing right outside his door. He feigns surprise and shrugs his hands into his jeans pockets. "Oh. Hey Zane. Hey Sloan."

"Did you tell your girlfriend —"

"Leave Don the fuck out of this, and if you have a problem you talk to me instead of Don!" Sloan says.

"I'm only asking because every time you do shit like this, it turns out that Keefer is somehow the fuck involved." Don notices Charlie enter behind them and lean casually on a desk, a semi-interested look on his face.

"That is absolutely false; in fact, any time that you've gotten pissed at me Don has actually taken your side."

"Somehow, Keefer, you put shit in her head —"

"For the final time, Don didn't put anything in my head; he told me not to say it."

"For crying the fuck out loud, then, Sloan, when the hell are you going to listen to the goddamn professional EPs on shit like this?"

Now that pisses him off. He knows Sloan will make him regret it later, but he interrupts whatever she's about to say with, "OK, you know what, Zane, I don't know how many times she has to say that I didn't tell her to say that it'll take for you to believe her, and I don't know how many degrees she needs to earn until you actually learn that she's smarter than you and a better journalist than you are, but would you quit fucking talking to her like she is a child?"

"This is between me and my anchor —"

"Yeah, don't fucking pull that; you just bellowed my name for the entire goddamn floor to hear. And she's a lot better at dealing with your fucking bullshit than I am; I wanted to either punch you or report you to HR for the fucking Colbert thing."

"And I told you that it was none of your business," Sloan says. She desperately wants to take this out of the newsroom, and he can't blame her. But she also wants him out of this argument, and so he can't suggest moving it because then he'll continue his involvement.

"Sounds like it might be some of my business, though," Charlie says, leaning forward. Zane and Sloan notice him for the first time. They stare at each other, furious, and Don decides to take his opportunity.

"Wasn't there, but from what I gather Zane told Sloan that covering student loan debt would make her the 'Stephen Colbert of daytime cable news' — you know, the joke."

"Huh," Charlie says. "At any rate, this conversation absolutely needs to take place somewhere else. Sloan, Zane, do we need to have Don present at this somewhere else?"

"No," Sloan says vehemently.

"Alright. Sloan, I assume you have documentation of the whole oil-companies-are-funding-terrorists connections? To the extent that you alleged there was a connection?"

"Yup."

"Alright. Both of you in my office." They slink out, and Sloan tosses him a pissed-off look. He gets it; he's in trouble. He turns, running both hands through his hair, before retreating to his office.

He doesn't get a chance to watch her four o'clock, since he's in a rundown meeting for Right Now followed by the final rundown for News Night, and then has to hustle to the graphics department. He watches her segment on News Night, where she talks about John Carter, and she doesn't seem to want to murder anyone, which is good. After NewsNight, he can't find her, so right before Right Now he texts her to see if she's headed to one of their apartments. She doesn't reply.

He's walking into his office, trying to call her building to see if she's there and that's where he needs to go to apologize, when she says, "So Zane's been reassigned. He'll be producing the ten-to-noon hour. Julia Marconi is producing my show from now on."

He looks up. She's sitting, a glass of merlot in hand, at his desk chair. "Sloan. Christ. You …"

"Blindsided you? Yeah. Kinda like what you did today."

"Ok. Look. I'm sorry. I lost my temper."

"Christ, Don, I don't even know where to begin. Should I start with where you told Charlie about what Zane said, which I told you as my boyfriend and not as an ACN producer? Or should I start with where you got into an overprotective pissing contest with Zane about my career and my job, which I can handle by myself? Or, actually, maybe I want to go back to yesterday, when you didn't think I should run the story?"

"OK, fine," he says, grabbing his bag. "Can we go home to have this talk?"

"No, I kind of want to have it here," she says, emphatically hitting his desk with her pointer finger.

"OK, fine," he says, tossing down his bag. "Which fight do you want to have first? The one where I was an asshole boyfriend, the other one where I was an asshole boyfriend, or the third one where I was an asshole boyfriend?" They bicker, pretty frequently, but it always has the feeling of foreplay. This already isn't; he can almost feel his body bracing for an ugly fight.

She stares at him, disgusted. "Don't be flip."

"I'm serious! Where do you want to start, Sloan?"

"I really don't appreciate the attitude."

"Who the fuck are you, my third grade teacher? Fine, Sloan, let's start with me telling Charlie about the comment, which I think is the thing that's pissing you off the least."

"Fine, but let's throw you being a jackass on to the end!"

"And you being overly sensitive and stubborn about the entire damn thing! I'm sorry I told Charlie, I lost my temper. Zane treats you like shit, Sloan, and I know you can and prefer to handle it, but he pissed me off. And I'm sorry."

"That's it? That's what you have to say?"

"What else can I say?!" he yells.

"I don't know but it's not enough!" she yells. "I don't — I can't divide the arguments into the different times you pissed me off. They're all for the same reason. Do you respect me as a journalist? That's what all of these boil down to."

He's stunned. "How did we get from me being an asshole — and you going directly against my advice and the wishes of your producer — to me not respecting you as a journalist?"

She shrugs. "They're all about you not thinking I can handle myself as a journalist."

"Sloan. We've been dating for what, almost six months —"

"Four months-plus —"

"Whatever. We've been dating for four-months-plus, and I've known you for three years before that. I've known you through all your shows and all your time at ACN. You really think I don't respect you as a journalist?" He's trying to not yell, and he is failing epically.

"I think you think of me as an economist before a journalist."

"I think you think of yourself that way! You say I have two Ph.D.s at least twice a week. Of course I respect you as a journalist. It's bullshit to think otherwise. On the first two reasons why you're angry — I'm sorry for letting it slip with Charlie. I was pissed and Charlie asked. I know you told me that as a boyfriend and not a coworker, but he pissed me off. Which leads me to point two — I'm sorry for getting in the middle of that fight with Zane."

"You don't get to fight these battles for me! I don't interfere when you have trouble with Elliot or Mac! I'm going to get to the top without you paving the way!"

"Right, which is why I'm saying I'm sorry."

"But that's why I don't think you respect me as a journalist! If you did, you would let me handle this on my own."

"You know what, Sloan, I respect you plenty as a journalist — and I don't think that would make one damned bit of difference. When I said that I loved you, I meant it. I'm not going to just … stand by, as someone is a jackass to you. He doesn't get to say those things to you. I know you can handle it, but you shouldn't even have to put up with it in the first place. And me getting pissed about that, it's just kinda part and parcel." He realizes they're both shouting, borderline screaming, and hopes that everyone else has gone home. "I respect you, and I recognize when others don't, and that pisses me off."

"Still not your battle to go all Neanderthal on."

"You're not remotely happy that now you're working with Julia?"

"That's besides the point! You respect me more than him, but you don't respect me enough to let me handle it. You didn't think I could handle it?"

"Of course I thought you could — Sloan, I wouldn't want to be with you if I didn't respect you as a journalist."

"Really? Because you were with Maggie for a hell of a lot longer than we've been together."

That just took this argument to a whole nother direction. "I thought we were passed this? I thought we discussed this a couple weeks ago along with the whole Topher thing!"

"We did. I don't care and I'm not jealous or worried, but I do think that's evidence against your point that 'you wouldn't be with me if you didn't respect me as a journalist.'"

"Come on, that was a completely different relationship — which you know,because you were there!" They're both positively roaring right now.

"Fine. Then why didn't you think I should run the story?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?! Because it was risky and it was stupid! You didn't have enough of a link, which you knew, because what you ran with was damned qualified and tenuous, so that State wouldn't come looking for your head on a spike! You ran that just to spite Zane and maybe me! I would have said that second part ten minutes ago but now I'm not sure. Do you respect me as a journalist, Sloan? I've been doing this for twelve years, I went to school for this, I worked hard. I'm the fucking youngest EP in prime time, Sloan, I know what the hell I am talking about. When you ask me for advice, if you respect me as a journalist, you would at least fucking take my thoughts on why you shouldn't run a lightly substantiated, highly provocative story seriously. You should've listened to me. You alleged that one of America's top allies in the war on terror is enabling a group that is more dangerous than al Qaeda, and that a bloodthirsty dictator who is overseeing a genocide in Syria is a better alternative than them. On a two o'clock financial show. You are fucking lucky that Zane had a breakdown, because otherwise Charlie would have had your ass on a platter!"

She stands. "Will would have run it."

"You're not Will!" he yells back.

She's shocked, and he is too. She grabs her jacket. "I'm going home. To my apartment. I suggest you do the same."

He tries to remember the last time they spent the night apart, and can't. Maybe January, right before he got that cold? "Are you actually —"

"Absolutely," she replies, slamming his door.

Finding nothing else to do, he throws his cell phone against the wall.

Twenty minutes later, he's in Hang Chew's, the damned binder in front of him and a drink in hand. He's combing through the files when Mac comes in.

"You're alone?" she asks, taking a seat.

"I am," he sighs, petulant and angry and self-pitying. "This is what I do now, I drink alone at bars at night."

Mac gives him a strange look — since that is the opposite of how he's spent any night the last four-months-plus — but refuses to indulge. "See, men can do that, with no stigma attached. Women —"

For crying out loud. "Women can vote, and your vote counts the same as my vote. I'm really supposed to worry about a stigma?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, Don. Don Don. Don. Are you happy with that name?"

"Pretty happy. Never really thought about it." He wants to deflect. "How'd it go in Maryland?"

"He confirmed," she replies, apprising him.

Well fuck. He puts his pen down. "Will he do it on camera?"

She shrugs. "We'll find out tomorrow." Chelsea comes up. "Hey Chelsea, what do you say?"

"Hey Mac. You alone?"

"Don't stigmatize her," he warns, returning to his work.

"Where's the gang?" Chelsea asks.

"Jim and Neal are on a double date, Will is having a quiet night at home with Mrs. Macbeth, and Sloan — I have no idea where Sloan is. Don?"

Fucking hell. He studies his papers intently. "We had a fight, so Sloan is at her apartment and I am here."

Mac does a double take. "Was it a bad fight?"

He shrugs. "Well, she is at home, and I am here, so I would say it was not a good fight."

"What happened?"

"She went against my advice as a producer, which pissed off Zane, also a producer. Zane then had a meltdown in the middle of the newsroom, started getting … snide with her. I flipped at him; Charlie interfered; found out what Zane had said to her; demoted Zane. While Sloan has not enjoyed working with Zane for the last year and a half, this is all my fault. Because I don't respect her as a journalist, apparently, so now she's pissed at me."

She's quiet. "Well, we're both going to need more drinks. Chelsea!"

"You're not going to …"

"What?"

"I don't know, yell at me on behalf of the sisterhood?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because Sloan's pissed at me."

"Don, do you respect her as a journalist?"

"Of course I do!"

"I know that. And she does too, or else she wouldn't be dating you. You two had a fight. It was bound to happen sometime," she's quiet. "You're both smart, you're both passionate, you both have incredibly strong convictions. You'll cool off, and tomorrow you'll fix it."

He's skeptical. "She's really pissed, Mac."

"Big deal. She'll get over it, and so will you," she takes a sip as she studies him. Then she pivots. "Do you fully trust Jerry Dantana?"

He sighs. He's been struggling with this ever since Sloan asked him to apply logic last night. "Why wouldn't I?" he asks.

"No reason, I was just curious."

"But there's a reason you're asking."

"They're really isn't."

"I'll tell you what it is."

"It was just curiosity."

"It's because he's not Jim." He takes a sip of his Scotch and smiles. "Jerry has committed the crime of not being Jim Harper." He knew his crimes against Mac are larger, but not-being-Jim was certainly one of them. Before Mac left, he had known her and Brian and Will pretty well — he worked at Newsweek with Brian before going to ACN's politics desk before going to Will's show when Mac took it over — and he'd tried to stay out of taking a side when it all went to hell. When she returned and had Jim, her guy, in tow, it had initially bugged him, but he'd long gotten over it. "You know how long it took you to trust me?"

"How long?"

"I'll let you know when it happens."

"I completely trust you."

"Do you?" He normally would assume this — he and Mac have been good, though changed, for a while — but the whole fight with Sloan has thrown him.

"With my life, Don," she smiles, confused at his insecurity.

"Thank you, that's nice to hear."

"Why are you so … rattled tonight?"

"Rattled?"

"So you got in a fight with Sloan, big deal. Surely you two — oh."

"What?"

"You haven't gotten in a fight before, have you?"

He shrugs. "We've had disagreements. We do that a lot, actually. I forgot to tell her when I was sick in January; that made her mad. She never wants to wear socks to bed even though she's always freezing, which is annoying. Every time she burns one of my pans trying to make grilled cheese there's some yelling. And I apparently can't recycle worth shit."

"But never a fight-fight?"

He shrugs. "We're not you and Will! We go to work, then we split takeout, bicker-flirt about something stupid, and fall asleep."

"You and Maggie used to have a storm-out-of-the-office fight at least once every three weeks. You measured how long the two of you were good in days."

"OK, in what ways have I ever indicated that I want to repeat that with Sloan?"

"I didn't say you did —"

"Because I don't. This … Sloan … No offense to Maggie, but this is entirely different. I don't want to have an epic blowout every three weeks. I don't want to have that fight to begin with!"

"You know sometimes you have to fight in a normal, healthy relationship, right?" Mac asks. "Oh my god, you don't know. Fighting is normal, Don. It's good; it means you're not afraid to be honest with each other."

"We're not … afraid to be honest with each other, we … Sloan and I don't really fight," he admits. "I just —"

"Oh my god," Mac says.

"What?"

"This is ... it for you, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Sloan. You. This is it, for you, isn't it?" she cocks her head. "And you're freaking out about this fight because you are used to, you know, whatever you were doing with Maggie, and Delilah and Ellie and — what the fuck was that girl named, the one you were dating when I hired you?"

He laughs, remembering. "Kortnee. WIth two e's. And a K."

"Oh god, yes. Kortnee. But this is it, isn't it? And you don't know how to handle the fight without a breakup or going on break or doing something stupid like asking her to move in with you."

He shrugs. It's too early to think of 'it,' even though he's met both her parents, which is farther than he's ever gotten before. "We've been dating for four months," he finally protests feebly.

"You've been friends for three years, it's a little different," she pauses. "Have you told her you love her?"

"I — yeah. A couple of weeks ago."

"That's great, Don!" she grins. "That is so great. She loves you too, you know."

"Yeah. Which makes this worse."

"Don't be glum. You're both trying harder than I've seen you work to make this work, and it's paying off."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. Seriously. Have you ever seen Sloan be this open? She was completely zipped-up for the first year I knew her, and I'm her self-appointed best friend. But she's being open with you. And you're both happy, which I've never seen. You two are good — just don't be afraid to argue. You're solid, so it's OK to disagree. You'll work this out. Why don't you go over to her place and talk this out?"

He looks at his watch. Sloan is vigilant about her sleep, and she's definitely asleep. "Tomorrow. I'll only piss her off more if I go over now."

"Well," Mac shrugs. "You two have all the … fundamentals, and this is something forgivable. She knows you respect her, and she has to know you have a point with the Syria story. And you know not to get in the middle of her work battles, and not to fly off the handle at anyone who insults her. She's a big girl, our Sloan. And most importantly, you both think this relationship is important, alright? That's the most important thing — to know you're solid and be confident, but not to get lazy and lose respect for the relationship."

He turns. "When did you become such a …"

"Rally girl?" she smiles. "When the cause is right and just? Always. Now come on, it looks like you need more alcohol."

They move to a corner then, to discuss slavery and whether or not Mac broke one of God's rules by cheating on Will, and how to handle the Genoa case. He and Mac get each other on kind of a basic level, are both innately pessimistic, in a way that few others are.. He's absolutely unconvinced that running the story is the right decision. They finally depart around 2 a.m., with Mac telling him, "Learn from mine and Will's mistakes, Donny." He's pretty sure that is actually at least 60 percent of the reason she cares at all what happens to him and Sloan — she's atoning for her mistake, in any and every way that she can, because Will won't forgive her. He's so tired and strung out from the fight he decides to head to ACN instead of his place. He's deliberately choosing not to overanalyze that decision.

He wakes up just after six with a hangover and a crick in his neck, and decides to fuck it. He hops on the 2 Train and heads to her place. On the two-block walk from the subway to her place, he stops to buy flowers, because it's always worked for him in the past. He knocks instead of using his key, and while it takes her a long moment to come to the door, she eventually opens it.

"Don why are knock — better question, why are you in the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?" she's in one of his shirts and his boxers, which he takes as a good sign. "And you brought flowers? Don," she sounds disappointed, but leaves the door open as she walks back into her apartment.

"What?" he says, following her into the kitchen. She flips both the TV and coffeemaker on. "I brought the flowers to apologize."

"Don, I don't ever want to be one of those girlfriends who extorts presents out of you after a fight. It's an archaic ritual associated with outdated gender norms, and most importantly, what does it solve? You want to prove you're sorry? Tell me and show me, don't … buy me." She toggles the TV to ACN Morning. Will is there? Strange.

"OK … fine," he says uncertainly, dumping the bouquet of lilies into the trash.

"Don!" she says. "That's just wasteful."

"Sloan, I'm perfectly willing to call bringing you flowers to apologize an outdated gender norm, but you can't have it both ways," he says, beginning to feel impatient again. "Either you accept the flowers or you don't, but you can't dismiss the sentiment and keep the flowers."

"Fine. I'm sorry for yelling at you for bringing flowers. It was completely unnecessary, and please don't ever do it again. However," she shakes grime off the petals, "thank you, and these are pretty."

"Noted," he says. "I'm trying here, alright?"

"Me too," she says quietly. "Why are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?"

"I spent the night in my office," he admits.

She rolls her eyes. "Really, Don? Your back is not great. That's a stupid way to to prove —"

"I wasn't trying to prove anything, and good God you think highly of yourself," he rebukes lightly. He knows she's mostly deflecting any attention and any evidence that someone cares about her, because to her, him admitting that he had a shitty night due to their fight feels like she's being selfish: She doesn't feel like she deserves nice things, and that includes his affection. "Mac got me drunk at Hang Chew's and I didn't feel like stumbling home." He pauses. "And yes, I didn't really want to be around all your crap. You have a lot of it, you know? Hair ties and sprays and lotions and teas and vegetables," he faux-shudders. "I didn't think I would sleep well. Turns out I was fucked either way."

She slides a cup of black coffee his way and busies herself adding almond milk to her own. "I didn't sleep so well either."

"Listen. I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to interfere with your fight with Zane. You didn't need me to, and I should've excused myself before I stooped to his level. And when you tried to talk to me about it, I was an even bigger dick, and was disrespectful. And for that, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she says, then takes a deep breath. "And I shouldn't've said you didn't respect me as a journalist. That was going for the jugular."

"Thank you," he says. They're both quiet for a minute as they figure out what to say next they've apologized for the most egregious things, but not for the issues at the root of the argument.

"Sloan, I —" he starts at the same time she says, "Alright, but —". They both giggle a little, and he says, "You first."

"I said — and implied — a lot of hurtful stuff. Which I didn't mean. You're great at your job, for instance. And that stuff about Maggie was completely out of line, too. But pissed as I am about you getting into the argument with Zane — don't think I'm not pissed, but putting that aside — the stuff about the story … That really got to me."

"Sloan. Again. I shouldn't've taken Zane's bait. And I shouldn't've told Charlie about the Colbert comment. And for the record, I absolutely respect you as a journalist. And the fact that you're an economist too? That's just fucking impressive. But c'mon, Sloan. You gotta see why I thought — and still think — you running with that comment, on that show, was a bad idea."

"It's right."

"Then run it in NewsNight and ignore the segment on the financial news. But whether it's right or wrong is beside the point. If this Genoa story is right, do you think we should run it? Tell everyone in the Middle East that the U.S. dumps sarin on civilians? It signs the death warrant for every American soldier. Did you think about what this means for our allies? If this is true it's way bigger than this oil stock. You have to know that. And if you don't, just trust me on this one. I trust you on stock market questions and — is Will throwing a football into a light tree?" The fucking hell?

Sloan whirls, then hits the remote to replay. They watch Will don the stupid helmet, hear what's-her-name remind Will that it's for cancer research, watch him throw the football into the light. They watch it again. And again.

"He had a baseball scholarship. He can definitely make that stupid hoop," Sloan says. She covers her mouth with both hands.

"He looks like Dukakis riding a tank," Don says, his eyes bulging. "Now that? That is a fucking producorial snafu. I wouldn't let you do that."

She laughs then, her giggles breaking over him like wind chimes, and she takes his face in both hands. "I know that. I trust you. I was just mad," she kisses him deeply.

"We good?" he checks. Suddenly, he cares so much less about whether she was listening to him or he was right. He actually couldn't give a fuck if he was right or not, as long as they're alright.

"Yeah," she affirms. "I could've done the segment another way; you could've handled Zane differently. We're both sorry, we both know we fucked up. We'll — we'll probably do it again, but we work together and spend every night together and so duh, of course this happens sometimes. We won't hold it against each other, and we'll talk it out. Like we said we would in January. Deal?"

He kisses her again, one hand snaking to the small of her back and holding her there. "Deal."

"What time do you have to be in?"

"I dunno. Eleven?"

"God I'm so jealous your schedule," she groans. He palms one hand over her stomach to turn that groan into a moan.

"It's not even seven. Surely you can wait until eight," he suggests, lifting her shirt up. She bites her lip and he knows he's persuaded her. He starts shuffling toward the bedroom immediately.

"So Mac got you drunk at Hang Chew's? What did you guys talk about?" Sloan asks later as she emerges from the shower. He is still in bed, because he is fucking exhausted (in both the good and not-so-good ways).

"Genoa, mostly. And you and Will, of course."

"What did you tell Mac?" She runs a comb through her hair.

"That we got into a fight," he shrugs. "She had relationship advice, mostly predicated on her and Will."

"You know, I walked into his office yesterday and he was watching a secret focus group he commissioned. And then he does this. I mean, what the hell?"

"It's not that surprising. He sees the numbers, worries they don't like him, and does something he thinks will make him more likable."

"And after Mac left, the audience became his imaginary friends and now he's worried they're leaving him," she puts together.

"Basically," he shrugs. "Money on Nina somehow being involved." He doesn't like that woman.

"You're probably right," she says. She pulls on a purple drapey sweater. It's spring. Why is she always freezing? She leans over and kisses him. "Mac helped you fix us; I'm going to help him fix … himself."

That's alarming. "What are you doing and saying?"

"Will and I have this big brother-little sister dynamic. So I'm going to go kick his ass."

He laughs, because he knows when it's not a battle worth fighting. "You mind if I stay here and sleep?"

"Absolutely not. Aspirin in the bathroom. If your back hurts." She kisses him again and gets up to leave.

"Sloan," he calls, and she turns. He's groggy and his head is on her pillow. "I love you. I do. I really, really mean that."

She smiles, one of those too-big and too-bright awed smiles. "I love you too," she says. Then she's gone.

He manages to grab another two hours of sleep and a hot shower before going in, and he feels like a new person. The newsroom is buzzing about Will's tour de force, but he manages to duck it as he escapes to his office.

He can't avoid it coming to find him, though. Sometime after the NewsNight rundown and lunch, he looks up and sees Will in his doorway. "Hello?" he says cautiously. "Come on in."

"Thanks," Will sits down. "How's your day?"

"Better than yours, I'd guess. You had to put the helmet on?"

He shrugs. "Your other half compared me to Dukakis on a tank."

Hey. "I said that first!"

"It wasn't exactly original; don't get your panties in a twist," Will says snippily.

"What's up, Will?"

"I heard you got Zane fired?"

"Zane got himself demoted by being an ass. But yes, I may have … inadvertently expedited it."

"Bet Sloan loved that."

"And I loved her asking for advice and then ignoring it," he says, then shrugs. "We've worked through it."

"Charlie gave you the speech already, the kneecaps speech, about your intentions, right?"

"What? Yes. He gave me a big-brother speech. After Valentine's Day." God, he's never going to live that down.

"I would say Charlie is more inappropriate uncle than older brother."

"Same thing."

"No," Will says piercingly. "They're not."

He can't help but feel he's fucked.

Will continues. "When the two of you started dating, I was happy with it. Hell, I even encouraged it. Sloan needed to have some fun, Mac seemed to think it was a good match, and whatever the hell happened with Maggie was actually, in the end, only about 50 percent your fault. Which is pretty good. Plus you had this stupid look on your face every time you thought she wasn't looking and I liked that. I think it's important that the guy is a little bit more into the girl at the beginning."

"That's not old fashioned or anything."

"Not right now; I'm speechifying."

"Alright, continue."

"Anyways. You had a stupid look on your face and I liked that."

"Pretty sure I still have a stupid look on my face when I look at her."

"You do," Will confirms. "And I've stuck up for you, just so you know. When she's been high-strung about stuff, I've taken your side."

"Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Anyways, when I asked Sloan if you guys got into a fight over the Zane thing, she said yes. Then she said that you guys made up. And that she cared more about the two of you getting back to normal than she did that you interfered in her career."

"She said that?"

"I'm paraphrasing."

"Well what did she say?"

"She said it was more important that the two of you work through a fight than either of you win the fight."

"That sounds healthy."

"It sounds a lot like love."

"OK, and that's a bad thing?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

He's confused. "What the hell do you want me to tell you?"

Will shifts. "During the what, eighteen months you dated Maggie, you broke up maybe, what six times? Eight? Cumulative time together was maybe eleven, twelve months? Before that, you exclusively dated women who purposefully misspelled their America's Sweetheart first names."

"Hey now —"

"Juli needs an e on the end, Don. Tiffani is spelled with a y."

"Fine, yes, I dated between the ages of sixteen and thirty-four."

"Not just you. Sloan was engaged to that jackass, and dated several more of them."

"Do you have a point, Will? Believe me, Sloan and I have actually discussed all this. Does it matter how many people we dated before we started dating each other, as long as we're not still dating other people as we date each other?" He can't believe Will is actually going out of his own way to meddle in a coworker's life, but it's not surprising that it's for Sloan, when he thinks about it.

"Where do you see this going? She's in deep. Very deep. I don't think I realized that until today."

Ah-ha. "And if I hurt her you'll break my kneecaps too?"

"Yes. And cut off your balls."

"Look. I don't know how many people I have to defend this to. But Sloan … I don't plan on hurting her, because I don't plan on breaking up with her. And I don't plan on treating her badly. I don't know what I need to do to convince you I'm a good guy —"

"I've always liked you, Don."

"There's a difference between putting up with me as a journalist and … respecting me enough as a guy not to come into my office and threaten my kneecaps and testicles. Listen," he shifts in his seat, "I get why, after watching the train wreck with Maggie and, you know, general things from 2006 to 2011, how you might want to go all surly big-brother. But you also have to give me that we've both changed a lot, especially me. And that this is working well. Besides, you of all people absolutely have to acknowledge that one person can completely change your relationship habits."

Will sits back. "For the record, I do like you. As a person and a journalist. If that's not apparent through my gruff and no-nonsense exterior."

"Thank you."

"This is a big risk, Donny."

He sighs. "I know."

"You love her, too."

"I do," he sighs, and looks at his clock. "Anything else? Or are my kneecaps safe for the time being?"

"They're good," Will rises, then turns. "You ever heard of a Goldlilocks planet?"

He shakes his head. An A- in physics was why he was salutatorian, not valedictorian. "No, why? Is one about to crash into earth?"

"No. Just … ask Sloan to explain them sometime." Will exits.

Alright, then. Don leans back to finish answering his emails and compiling his first run sheet. He notices that her show is starting, and turns up the volume.


	20. You can tell everybody that this is your song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter here! I found this one fun, especially in its use of Charlie, Reese, and Will. Also, it's a two-second aside - I mention a brother of Reese's - but I want to state for the record that this nonexistent brother has an entire backstory in my head: Tough youth + completely uninterested in the family business means he's out of the line of succession. But he's awesome, and played by BJ Novak, because BJ Novak + Chris Messina would be delightful. Then I realized that BJ Novak is appearing in the last season, so I can only hope for this. But that would be the dream. Anyways, let me know what you think!

February

"Sloan Sabbith, have I got an idea for you," Reese proclaims, entering her office with a broad smile.

Oh God. It is too early for this. "What can I do for you, Reese?"

"Nice flowers," he says, momentarily sidetracked as he gestures to the oversized, expensive bouquet of calla lilies, gardenias, and red tulips that Don had had delivered that morning for Valentine's Day. Somehow, he remembered her disdain for roses. "Who're they from?"

"Secret admirer, I guess," she shrugs. "What's up Reese?"

"My mother's annual benefit for Mt. Sinai hospital is later this month. As you know, it's a cause very dear to her heart, as they cared for my father during the final years of his life."

"I saw. Will's purchased a table and he's invited me to the benefit," Sloan says. "I'll be there."

"Wonderful. Then you know that as part of the event, my brother and I organize a silent auction every year to raise funds. Last year, we raised more than 50,000 dollars to benefit the Lansing Liver Cancer Center."

"Congratulations. I know you and Reed worked hard on that."

"Thank you, we did. This year we feel it would be a gesture of good faith if ACN talent donated an item to the auction. No pressure, of course, just a thought. A wondering, even."

She nods. "I could donate a copy of my book?"

"Money Problems in Pre-Nazi Germany? I'm not sure that'll sell."

She stands, because she has things to do. "Hyperinflation in the Weimar Republic. I would sign it."

"I was thinking a date."

"A date? Reese, you're a nice guy, but you're my boss's boss. I don't think that would be appropriate," she deflects.

"Ha, ha. You're funny. See that sense of humor would go over well in a situation where you're on a date with someone you bought the privilege in an auction."

"I hope you know how absolutely sexist that sounds. Women are not chattel, Reese," her voice rises with each word. "This might be why only models and dancers date you."

"I've never found that particular habit of mine to be problematic," he grins. "So it's settled, then. You'll auction off a date."

"No, it's not 'settled then,'' she says. "I'm not —" she pauses, trying to figure out how to explain herself without giving away her relationship with Don. "Not comfortable with that proposition."

It's decidedly tricky to secret-date a coworker. It's definitely hot (with all the sneaking around and occasional makeout sessions in darkened offices), but mostly, it's a logistical nightmare: They can't come in together, one of them circles the block after leaving, they resort to playing footsy instead of sitting next to each other at meetings. It's a little absurd, since plenty of people know they're dating — Elliot, Will, Mac, even Maggie, which means that Neal and Jim and most of the NewsNight staff definitely do — but they haven't told Charlie or HR (they're fine, as long as they report it, and they haven't reported it) and now they've been dating for a while so it's awkward. And while it's where she lives and owns property, she's not good at awkward.

"It'd be fun," Reese cajoles, then flags down a passing Charlie. "Yo! Charlie. I think Sloan should donate a date to the silent auction for the Lansing Liver Cancer Center benefit. Don't you think that would be great?"

"I do think that would be nice," Charlie says. "Will is donating a round of golf, Elliot is donating his courtside Knicks tickets —"

"I said I would donate my book," she says.

"Poor Sad Germans and How Their Money Problems Caused World War Two? C'mon, Sloan, I think a date would do a little better. You're a pretty girl."

"Ok, actually everything about what you just said was sexist and terrible," she says. She can feel a headache coming on. "And the book is Hyperinflation in the Weimar Republic. And it's an excellent book, and got excellent reviews in the New Yorker and the American Journal of Economics when it came out. And you know that."

"It'll be fun," Charlie says. "Yo, Don! Over here."

And the situation has officially gone to hell.

"What's up?" Don says suspiciously. "What am I walking into?"

"Don, Charlie and I think that Sloan offering a date through the silent auction at the benefit next month would be a great idea. We think it would generate a lot of money for needed cancer research."

"Ok," Don says slowly. "Why am I over here?"

"Sloan doesn't think it's a good idea. And you two are friends, right?" Reese asks.

Sloan wants to laugh. Or cry.

"We've known each other a while, yeah," Don says with an impressively straight face. "We hang out sometimes, grab a drink. Sloan, do you think we're friends?" His lips curl into a tiny smirk, and she wants to drag him into a utility closet and take his pants off, now.

"Not sure, really," she teases right back. "I think we'd have to hang out a few more times for that label to qualify. You busy after work?"

"Ok, cut the crap, you two," Charlie says. "Don, you need to tell her this is a great idea. Sloan's beautiful, accomplished woman —"

"Agreed," Don says.

"—And any man in New York would be lucky to go on a date with her —"

"Also, agreed," Don says, and his voice makes Sloan's toes curl.

"—And so she should do this."

Don raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, I've worked with the women in this office for, God, way too many years now. I'm not telling any of them to do anything." He starts to leave. "Good luck convincing her, though."

Sloan turns to Reese and Charlie triumphantly. "I'll donate my book, and a chance to read the stocks on my show," she smiles. "Now, I have a show to do. If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

Hours later, after Will's show, she's lounging in the armchair in her office, reading headlines from Japan on her iPad and drinking a glass of wine as she surreptitiously waits for Don to finish work so they can argue about where to spend the night again. They do that a lot. "Hey," he says, popping his head in the door.

"Hey," she says, angling her face up for a kiss. He complies, pecking her briefly, before sitting in her desk chair. "Thanks for taking my side in the date-auction debate."

He laughs. "I wasn't exactly going to encourage you to do it."

"And thank you for the flowers," she says. She decides he's too far away, so she stands up, walks around, and leans against her desk in front of him. "I'm sorry we're not doing something more exciting tonight." It was her decision not to do anything, and on one hand she's kind of proud that they're at the point where they can honestly be blase about Valentine' Day. On the other hand, it's Valentine's Day and they're at work and she still feels a bit morose.

"Mmm, I get to spend the night with you. That's enough for me. But wait till you see what I have planned for this weekend," he says, sitting forward and sliding his hands from the hollows of her knees up her thighs.

"Oooh, can I have a clue?" she teases back, looping her hands around his neck. "What should I wear?"

"Well, you know that black dress I really like?" he asks. "The one with the no-back and the lace?"

"Yeah?" she says, as he kisses her neck.

"Wear that," he suggests between draws on her neck. "And those heels. That make your legs look a mile long. You probably won't be wearing either for very long, but do it. Wear those."

"Alright," she laughs, and they're making out. It's a little reckless, in her office, before his show, but it's Valentine's Day and it's been a fucking long day and god, she really likes him. She slides into the chair, straddling his lap, and he plants his feet so they don't lose their balance and tip over.

"Sabbith, I've been thinking about the — argh!" Charlie yells. "What the everloving hell?"

As soon as he had entered, Sloan had shifted toward the door; when she shifted her weight, Don pushed them forward to prevent them from falling over; with that momentum, Sloan clutched onto him awkwardly around the shoulders; he then tried to hold her to keep her from falling. They both end up tumbling out of the seat, and he manages to clutch her and not fall completely on his ass. Limbs are everywhere, but it's not exactly her most graceful moment. "Charlie!" she yells, then tries to extract herself with dignity. "God. You could knock, you know."

Don jumps up behind her. "Hello sir," he says quickly.

"Sir? You're sir-ing him right now?"

Don shrugs. "I thought I'd give it a try. He's gonna yell, Sloan. He's going to yell a lot."

"This is a workplace!" Charlie starts with. "A PG workplace. That was skirting with an R rating, young lady."

"The hell? Young lady? What about him!?" Her mother had had a better reaction when she walked in on them making out.

"What the fuck were you two doing?" Charlie yelled again.

Don stares at him. "OK, I get that you're startled but you do know what that was right?"

"KEEFER!"

"Not helpful? OK," Don says. "I was kissing her."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"Ok, either you want him to spell things out or you don't, Charlie," Sloan says. "We were kissing. Because it's late, and it's Valentine's Day, and my boss tried to auction me off to the highest bidder today, but mostly because we wanted to. And I'm sorry that you walked in; that was not … great."

"How long have you been wanting to kiss her?" Charlie demands, looking straight at Don. Christ. She imagines that her own dad meeting Don would go over much more smoothly than this.

"The answer is kind of pathetic so I'm gonna take the Fifth," Don says.

"Really?" Sloan smiles.

"Yes," he says, confused. "What? You know this. Stop trying to be cute," he fake-grouses at her and she smiles even wider.

"We've been dating since mid-November," she says to Charlie. "Right before Thanksgiving, technically."

"Right after, our first date was right after Thanksgiving," Don corrects.

"I'm going by the first time we —" she says, mostly for Charlie's discomfort.

"Still here, Sabbith!" he yells.

"Right. So that's part of the reason why I didn't want to auction off a date. I also thought it was demeaning. That was the critical part."

"Three months?"

"Or two, if you count like Don."

"You've been dating for two or three months? And have just been … sneaking around?"

"Not sneaking around. Just not … not sneaking around," Don explains lamely.

"I told Will and Mac, but that's it," she says.

"I told Elliot, and Maggie figured it out."

"So that means probably at least a few other people know, yeah?" she asks Don, bantering for Charlie's sake.

"Probably, yeah," he smiles back.

"You two are a regular Burns and Allen," Charlie grumbles. "So you just decided to not tell … me? Is that it?"

"No, Charlie. Not at all," she says. That had nothing to do with it, and she hopes she hasn't hurt his feelings. "We just … We didn't want to … figure this out in front of everyone. And to keep it, you know, professional at work."

"That display was real professional," he says. "The most professional thing I've ever seen. For crying out loud, Mac and Will behave better!"

"We thought we were alone," she rebuts. "And that is false. The Mac and Will thing. And kind of offensive."

"So I guess you have it all figured out then?" Charlie asks sarcastically.

"Not — entirely," Don admits. "But I think we …"

"We're working on it," she says, her face drawn but resolute. "Babe, you need to go get ready for Elliot's show, don't you?" she asks. She rarely uses babe, or any term of endearment (and "honey" and "dear" are exclusively reserved for sarcasm) but she feels it's important right now, for Charlie to hear. For legitimacy.

"I do," he says, looking at Charlie. "Is it OK if I go?"

Charlie nods. Don evaluates him, then leans over and gives Sloan a peck on the cheek, which she leans in to, eyes still trained on Charlie.

Charlie looks at her after Don leaves. "You sure you know what you're doing, Sloan?" he asks, lips pursed as he waits for her answer.

"No," she answers frankly. "But I know that I want to be figuring it out with Don."

He looks at the bouquet on her desk. "He get you those?"

"Yes," she says.

"Those are very nice," he says before walking out.

She's confused about what's happening, so she heads into Will's office. He's reading a newspaper and smoking, and she goes straight for his booze cart. "You want any?" she asks, pouring herself two fingers.

"I'm meeting Nina in thirty minutes, why are you drinking my booze, Sloan?"

"So Don and I were … in my office, and Charlie … walked in on us."

"I assume you weren't just talking to him?" she whimpers and sits, pressing the cool glass against her forehead. "You weren't having sex on your desk were you? Because that's a new low, even for you."

"What's my current low?" she asks, not looking up.

"This moment," he says. "So Charlie walked in on you … in a compromised position? And now you want to gossip about whether or not you've lost credibility or if Charlie's mad at you and whether or not Don is freaking out and what that means for your relationship?" Will says snarkily.

"All of the above?" she says.

"Can't you go find MacKenzie for this?"

"Will, you're supposed to be my big brother. You said. This is an older-brother thing. You have to help me get out of trouble with dad."

Will pauses. "You and Don, it's … going alright, right?"

She shrugs with two hands. "I guess. Sure."

"And you two are getting along and he's met your mother and you seem to want to keep dating him for at least a little bit longer?"

"Yes?" she says, suddenly unsure of her answer.

"If you want it to work, then why haven't you told anyone?"

"I told you!"

"Gee thanks, because I really wanted to be dragged into this. If you and Don were walking down the hallway and ran into someone from dayside that you knew and Don didn't, how would you introduce him? Would you call him your boyfriend or would you call him the executive producer of Right Now?" She's silent, because she doesn't know. "If you two were out to dinner and a source came by, would you say, this is my boyfriend, or would you say, this is Don, who works at my network?" she's silent again, because she's not sure. "If Reese asks you to auction off a date, would you —"

"OK, I see your point," she interrupts. "I'm not the type of person to stand at the top of the stairs and go Hey everybody! Just so everyone's on the same page, Don and I are dating!"

"Right, which is why you have to be the one who says or does something."

"What do you mean?"

"It's pretty clear that, beyond your preference for keeping things private, you want this to be something different than what he and Maggie were."

"He wants that too!" she starts.

"Maybe, but at the end of the day, he wants you to be happy with the decision. He doesn't care who knows. Christ, have you seen the way that kid looks at you? You're delusional if you don't think that. And you don't want to go public for a lot of reasons. One of those is that you're private but another is that he had a relationship play out in public that a lot of people gossiped about, a relationship where he didn't always come off great, and that hit close to home for you since once upon a time, you were engaged to a coworker and then he cheated on you with another coworker. And it's that memory, I think, more than anything else, that's freaking you out." Will picks up his pen again. "You want low-key, fine. You agree not to fight in the newsroom, thank you and hallelujah. But you keep saying he's a good guy, and I think you're right — I've thought that since he was my producer —"

"No you haven't."

"I've thought he was a good producer since he was my producer, and I've thought he was a good guy since about five minutes after he stopped being my producer. Who cares what I think, Sloan? My point is, you keep saying he's a good guy, and since being with you, he's actually trying to be better. But right now you're too scared to tell people because you're afraid that once it's out there, if it goes wrong, then everyone knows you failed. You either don't trust him, don't have confidence in yourself, or don't have faith in the relationship. Or all three, I don't know. But if you think it's going to work and you want it to work, you need to quit fucking around."

She smiles and stands. She feels better. "Thanks bro. You have a whole table at the Lansings' thing, right?"

He raises an eyebrow and sits back expectantly. "I do."

"Can I reserve one of the tickets for Don, my boyfriend?"

Will smiles. "I'd already saved a ticket for him."

She wanders through the halls till she gets to the control room. Don's running the broadcast, so she leans against the back row of computers and waits. He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, and she smiles.

At the commercial, he says, "Two back," and comes up to her. "Hey," he says, a step too close for friendship.

"Hey back," she says, with a flirty smile. "Will got a table at the Lansings' benefit in a couple of weeks and has extra tickets. Will you go with me?" she says it loud enough that everyone hears and a couple of people turn.

He side-eyes her for a second, then grins. "Of course," he says.

"Great," she says and then, so as to not leave any doubt, she hops up and kisses him over the console. "I'm going to head home. My place."

"Sounds good," he says, rolling with it. "Don't wait up. Charlie wants to speak to me after the show."

She raises an eyebrow. "Should I stick around?"

"No. In fact, he specifically said to come alone."

"Great," she raises the other eyebrow. "Can't wait to hear what he says."

She means to stay awake, she really does, but she passes out and is only jostled into half-consciousness when Don slips into bed. "What'd Charlie want?" she mumbles as she turns to face him.

"To strike the fear of God into me," he says, slipping an arm around her waist.

"What?"

"You know, to remind me that if I hurt you, he knows a guy, kneecaps, blah blah blah."

"Kneecaps blah blah blah?" she asks, way more awake.

"Mmmm yeah," he sighs. "I'm not worried."

"I'm not. I'm just a little offended."

"You can chew him out tomorrow on behalf of feminism. So, the gala?"

"Yeah. About the control room —"

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Does this mean I get to kiss you whenever I want?"

"Within reason and the bounds of professionalism," she caveats.

"Mmmm, sexy," he teases, his nose millimeters from hers. "Happy Valentine's Day, Sloan."

Two weeks later she's dressed in a one-shouldered gray Armani cocktail dress, and Don looks handsome in a suit. She threads her fingers through Don's as they enter the MOMA.

As soon as they're inside, she sees Jamie, a managing director at Morgan Stanley and an HBS classmate of Reese's. They've met at a couple of industry things. "Sloan Sabbith!" he calls from the coat-check line. "How're you?"

"I'm great," she replies with a wide smile. "You?"

"Excellent as always," he grins.

"Great. Jamie, I don't think you've met Don? My boyfriend," she smiles.


	21. Through the Jungle, Through the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! These continue to zip on by — not that many to go now (Wow!). This one emerged when I realized how closely I'd put the wedding to the Genoa retraction (though, of course, I did that way before the actual episodes aired) and realized that would probably come up in a deposition. I also wanted to do a little of the Genoa autumn from Sloan's perspective, as the chapters that dealt with it most directly were Don's. So here you all go! This chapter directly precedes chapter ten, and lays the groundwork for Sloan's nerves there. Hopefully the metaphor of the hurricane is clear, but not sledge-hammeringly obvious.

October

"There's a storm coming, Mr. Wayne," Sloan intones as she hears Don enter her office behind her. She's standing at the window, entranced by the first few placid drops. They're light, almost graceful. It makes her barely believe the weather reports. "You and your friends —"

"Alright, Morgan Freeman —"

"That was Anne Hathaway's line," she says indignantly, turning around. A roll of thunder crackles outside. How dare he frequently bemoan her lack of movie knowledge but then not get a quote?

"Really? Because it kinda sounded like you were doing a Morgan Freeman —"

"How did that possibly sound like Morgan Freeman?"

"Your voice got really deep, and it sounded like you were, you know, doing one of his God roles. Like from when he narrated The Bible, maybe?"

"You know, you make fun of the fact that I've only seen movies you've taken me to, but you don't remember the movies we do see. That was Anne Hathaway's line in The Dark Knight Rises."

"We clearly both suck," he says wryly. "Anyways. Did you see Charlie's email? The storm-coverage planning meeting is happening in like two minutes."

"Got it," she says, and he holds the door open. "So you know how being married means that I'm your favorite correspondent?"

"You were my favorite before then, but sure."

"Even better. I have a favor to ask."

"Sloan, if Charlie decides to send you to Cape Hatteras to stand in the street with your Hunters on, there's really nothing I can do."

Ugh. She hates it when he's all mind-reader-y. "Why did I marry you?" she pouts.

"I'm supportive, a good listener, and I understand the demands of your job, never judge you when you order a second helping of French toast …" he suggests.

"Oh. Definitely the last one, yes," she smiles as they walk into the senior-staff meeting.

"It really is a freakish devotion, you know," he says as they take their seats.

"It was my first love. Can you truly deny me my first love?" She realizes the rest of the room is quiet. Whoops.

"Great. The Keefers are here, everybody," Charlie says.

"Exactly on time, Charlie," Don points out.

"Alright, people, a storm's a-brewing," Charlie says. "And we're going to have to be ready. Fifty people have died in Haiti. The governors of Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Maryland, and New York, as well as the mayor of D.C., declared states of emergency today. It's currently a Category 3 storm; if it stays at this strength when it comes up the Atlantic Coast, we're talking death and destruction of the highest order. It could be another Katrina. Or, it could turn into another Hurricane Irene. We simply don't know." Sloan supposes there is a metaphor in that. "We're going to run coverage out of New York, though D.C., you're going to need to send reporters down the coast to North Carolina. Chad is going to be coordinating coverage through the length of the storm."

Chad's their national news director who works from the twenty-seventh floor, which is where the desk staff work from. While it totally makes sense for him to run point on this story, Sloan's a little disappointed in the decision — she totally wanted Don to get the coordinator role. He deserves it, for sure. But she also gets that everyone who played a role in Genoa is going to be spending a significant portion of the next few weeks getting deposed, and that Charlie's favoritism of the primetime producers over the desk staff — to whom she actually, technically reported to as well, as a part of the national and money desks — had helped cause Genoa. She understands wanting to keep all of them away from any major stories, from any major potential Peabody-worthy stories, until this is cleared up. But she wishes it could be different.

Chad stands. He's straight-shouldered and boring. "Thanks, Charlie. I'm excited for this opportunity, and I think we're going to be able to offer great coverage to our viewers. We're going to play it straight until we know any more information, but just know that if you're a national correspondent without a show to anchor, you're on call to travel anywhere from Delaware to Maine for live shots." Sloan breathes a huge sigh of relief — she's safe — and makes eye contact with Don, who smirks. "I'll be coordinating with our production units, and I anticipate having about six to eight correspondents out — yes, Suzanne?"

"Have the official rain jackets of ACN changed since last year's storm? Because the shade of blue we had blended in really well with the clouds and the rain and the general misery around us. Too well. I looked like a bobblehead doll. A bobblehead doll being tossed around in the rain."

"I — are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Can I suggest yellow?"

"Um —"

"We don't have time," Don points out. "Besides, the blue is ACN blue; we have a trademark. And you look great in blue! Everyone does." Suzanne huffs back in her seat but is quiet.

"Anyways," Chad regains his composure and authority. "D.C., cover the political angle — the White House and FEMA response. Dana, I'll need you on the New York City government. Damon, the transportation angle. Marina and Chelsea, state governments. Sloan, the Wall Street and financial angles. That includes the damage's impact on the local and national economies. If the stock market is shut down, what does it mean? That kind of stuff."

"Yup," she says, because that's obvious.

"And Chris, the military — Navy, Coast Guard. Don, you'll be managing the control room if and when this thing makes land." This is not totally out of the blue — Chad rose through the reportorial, not producerial, ranks — she's still pleasantly surprised. From the looks of it, so is Don. "We'll do panels night-of with Sloan, Will, and Elliot."

There's a bunch more procedural nonsense before the meeting is finally dismissed. As they're leaving, Charlie calls, "Sloan! Don!" They approach warily. It really is 50-50 with Charlie these days. "Where are you two living these days? Have you moved yet?"

"Still at Sloan's old place," Don says, and she likes the way he says old place. "We're closing on the new one just after the election."

"Her old place in the Financial District? What evacuation zone are you in?"

"A," she shrugs. "Last year, during Irene, I got a hotel that I never had to use. We can do the same this year."

"Don't bother, if the order goes out — I have a studio a couple blocks away you two can use, if you want."

"You have a studio?"

"Yes. Sometimes I have to stay late and I need a place to crash. Sophie's planning on moving down when she graduates, and God knows she won't be able to afford a place in the cool part of Brooklyn like she wants on a philosophy-major's salary, so it'll go to her next year. But if you want it if you get evacuated, you can have it."

"What will you do?"

"I have a home! A nice one. In Greenwich. I'm going there."

"So is this like a secret apartment for, like, a mistress?" Don asks. He looks scandalized.

"Yes, because I'm Don Draper," Charlie says. "Watch out for your foot kicking your gift horse in the mouth."

"I see what you were trying to do there, with the metaphors, and I gotta say —"

"Out," Charlie says, but without rancor.

"Wait — if we do have to get evacuated, we'd appreciate the offer. Forget what Don said. He has a stupid big mouth."

"Well, of course it still stands. Just. If you need it," he shrugs. "Also, you'll both need to talk to Rebecca Halliday this week."

"Do I need a lawyer?" Sloan asks.

"No," Charlie says. "She is your lawyer."

"I still feel like I need one."

"You're not guilty. You didn't do anything wrong," Charlie points out before walking away.

She stares after him and waits a beat. "He knows that's not actually how that works, right?"

Don shrugs. "I kind of agree with him."

Sloan tries not to keep her mouth hanging open for too long.

When the Zone A evacuation order comes on Sunday — they're at home when they get a news alert — Don is predictably cranky. "All the cool kids will stay," he kvetches as she tosses jeans and shirts into a suitcase and he throws perishables away. She's fairly certain they'll be back Monday evening too, so she's not bringing anything nice — she can always borrow stuff from work for the air — but she's not going to say that. "It's not even a real hurricane. 'Tropical storm' doesn't even sound remotely scary. And remember Irene? That hotel room you never used?"

"I don't care, Don," she shrugs. "I grew up in Japan and San Francisco, where you don't get warnings for natural disasters. We might as well take advantage of it."

"Yes, but we'll be sleeping in Charlie's bed. He's our boss, Sloan. That's weird."

"That's a fair point," she acknowledges. "You should probably sleep on the couch then," she almost keeps a straight face through that.

They pick up the keys from Charlie, who is unsurprisingly at ACN, and she heads over to check out the apartment while Don stays to help Chad prep coverage of the storm. The apartment, located two blocks from ACN, is a generically modern one-bedroom that doesn't look particularly lived in, but she still spends time checking out the photos and poking into the medicine cabinet. Almost everything is bare-to-the-point-of-ridiculous, save for the liquor cabinet, which is well stocked. Figures — there are two suits in the closet, but twelve bottles of Scotland's finest. She gives up and ducks into the broody, Mr. Rochester-esque streets to stock up on more canned goods and candles. Just in case. She can hear Don smirking at her preparedness.

Her morning class at Columbia is canceled, which is good, because Chad texts them at 7 and tells them to be in by 8 for a staff meeting. ACN is bustling by the time they arrive, and Chad's already made the call to go to an "ACN Reports" panel format for all of dayside coverage as well. She groans internally at that announcement — she'll be on from one to five in addition to the primetime panel. It's a lot of TV. When she mentions this to Don, he shrugs. "At least you won't be in front of a camera in a raincoat in North Carolina," he smirks.

The rest of the morning and afternoon is a blur — it's grinding, but there's not much they can do. Just gather information and report on the damage. It's not like Gabby Giffords, when there were sources to call and meaning to convey. In fact, it's kind of … boring: All the stress and responsibility of breaking news, with none of the suspense: They all know the storm is going to hit, and that it'll be bad. She hosts conversations with several emergency preparedness professors and former FEMA officials, talks to a bunch of damage-assessment and insurance execs, and spends at least an hour trying to get ahold of Chris Christie. All watching the storm drench New York does is make it abundantly clear that she probably won't be able to get into her apartment for at least several days. If it wasn't for Don saying cracking jokes into her ear — and the fact that she was right about the storm — she'd be climbing up the walls.

Don swaps her out at five, and she goes to hide in her office, sip a soda, and look at Pinterest boards about kitchen renovations. It's become a total time-suck in the best way. She only on her third re-pin when Charlie finds her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Taking a break?" she tries. "I've been on for six hours straight and I feel that I've earned it. I'm going onto the primetime panel at eight."

"You have your first deposition prep. With the lawyers. Will and Mac and Don and Maggie had theirs last week. It's your turn."

"That's … still a thing?" She scrolls through her phone to see if there's anything new she should be covering. Spencer has texted her to ask what brand her blouse is, so she twists to see the tag before typing back Karen Millen.

"Gee, I don't know, are we still getting sued?"

"I meant because of the storm!"

"Lawyers don't stop for hurricanes!"

"Well it seems like there were extenuating circumstances!'

"Conference room. Now."

She huffs and flounces off to the conference room. Knocking twice, she enters. "Hi," she says. "I'm —"'

"Sloan Sabbith?" the woman, a queen among three princes, says.

"Yes."

"You're late."

Great. "Sorry. There's a superstorm system hitting New York right now, and I was covering it."

"Ah. You're a newswoman," she emphasizes the word strangely, like she's proud of herself. Or it's some sort of weirdly private joke that only she gets.

"I guess. I prefer journalist. And by training, I'm an economist. And you are?"

"Rebecca Halliday," she smiles, and Sloan does not trust it. "I'm your lawyer."

"You're ACN's lawyer. I haven't retained counsel."

Rebecca looks charmed. "Ah! Pre-law, or a dad who was a lawyer?"

"Mother, actually," she says. "And sister."

"God bless the sisterhood," Rebecca says, then suddenly turns businesslike. "Alright. So you are here because you're going to be called first to be deposed, and then likely testify, about ACN's development and airing of the Genoa story. You're not a potential witness; you are a definite, and potentially critical, witness. Jerry Dantana is suing —"

"Yup, I know."

"He's alleging that institutional failure led to the broadcast, not his individual actions."

"That's hilarious, because clearly the institution was in the edit bay with him when he hacking away at the raw footage."

"He admits he did that —"

"Phew. Otherwise we might have a real problem."

"But he believes that he's a scapegoat. I'm here to show that the staff of NewsNight acted with good intentions, but I'll need to do more than that: I need to show that whatever failures ACN had as an institution — and I'm getting the idea there were many — that did not contribute preponderantly to Genoa's eventual airing. That that was malice on the part of Dantana and ACN is not responsible for that."

"That should be fairly straightforward, since it's not and, as I said, he edited raw footage. Which is inherently malicious."

Rebecca smiles like she's watching a YouTube video of a puppy using a hula hoop. "Right. To do all of that, I'm going to need to know everything about what's happened at ACN in the last fourteen months. This will help us formulate a strategy. Today, though, we're just getting to know each other. I feel we got off onto the wrong foot. I'm Rebecca Halliday, respected First Amendment litigator at Lowell Tiller. These are Trip, Bailey, and Mark, and they work for me. They're very friendly. Now what's your full name and title?"

Sloan smiles ruefully. "Sloan Aiko Sabbith. I'm the chief financial correspondent at ACN, I anchor two shows in the afternoon and I appear on NewsNight for at least five minutes most days. Occasionally I do panels, or fill in for Elliot Hirsch. I received Ph.D.s in decision theory and macroeconomics from Duke University, and I became aware of Operation Genoa as a member of the Red Team, which vetted the story in the months leading up to its airing."

"And you're married to Don Keefer, correct? The EP of Right Now with Elliot Hirsch and your fellow Red Team member."

"Yes."

"I saw it in the New York Times last month. Newlyweds. Congratulations."

"Thanks. Can't say I was a huge fan of the picture, but I didn't really have a choice. My mother actually put it in without telling us, and it was short notice, so she bumped someone else and pulled something from an email months ago."

"Quite a busy month — Genoa on the 9th, Benghazi on the 11th, the wedding on the 15th. That's some unfortunate timing. But weddings — I've had three, I know — even small ones take months to plan, so the show must go on."

Sloan stares. There's something very knowing in her tone. "Are you — you're asking if we got married to invoke spousal privilege?" She's offended.

Rebecca shrugs. "I'm not asking, I'm insinuating. I admit, I find the timing curious. As will Dantana's lawyers. It looks like you had something to hide."

"We don't. We got married because we wanted to be married."

"You got married because you wanted to be married," Rebecca parrots. "Five days after the worst day of your careers."

"You know, and we thought the worst thing we'd thrown at us was a lot of pregnancy jokes. But no, this is great. Please continue. I'm enjoying this."

"Are you pregnant? I'll be candid and say that would be helpful."

"Alright, that's enough. This is way beyond the scope of the deposition, and I have to be on the air in a few hours," she moves to stand.

"Reee-laaaaax. Sit down," Rebecca coos, leaning across the table. "I'm just prepping you for what Dantana's attorneys are going to say. The two most likely — I'm not saying for the two of you, since I'm sure you're perfectly matched and star-crossed — reasons for getting married after ten months is either you're pregnant or you have something to hide. And particularly since this trial will rest on the reliability of your husband's ex-girlfriend as a witness you need to have a response that is neither catty nor trite in order to prove that your husband doesn't just take the side of whoever he's slept with."

She sits, mindlessly tapping her wedding band against her engagement ring. "We — us — we're separate from Genoa. The timing is coincidental. Don and I, together, have done everything fast. We became friends within twelve hours. A year and a half later, we drifted, like —" she snaps, "that. Once we started dating, it took us about six months to start thinking about whether or not we wanted to get married. And we did. After Genoa and Benghazi, we realized that sometimes life is really short. Everyone we needed at the wedding could get to New York by that Saturday, so we decided to get married then. I hate to disappoint you, but that's kind of it."

"How romantic," Rebecca says.

"This is a tough crowd, I can tell," Sloan says. "The case rests on the reliability of Maggie?"

"Yes. Don seems to trust her quite a bit."

"That's not surprising, because he should trust her."

"You trust her?"

"Of course."

"You trust Don's faith in her?"

"Of course." She stares straight back at Rebecca. She absolutely trusts Don, but even if she didn't — she's not going to give an inch here.

"That's very confident of you."

"I'm a confident person. And I know my husband. And I trust him."

Rebecca puts her glasses back on. "So. Turning to Jerry Dantana. When did you meet him?"

She finally gets out of the damned meeting around 6:30 (explaining to Rebecca how and why Dantana came up from D.C. was fun, to say the least). After quickly putting together a segment with Jim on the potential hit the economy will take from the storm, she's back on air with Elliot and Will. Don's been on all day, so Mac, Jim, and Mike (Don's senior producer) are running the room for the first two hours of primetime. He materializes behind the camera around nine, as she's interviewing the mayor of Atlantic City. She flicks her eyes toward him once, a private signal of acknowledgement, and he waits till the commercial to come up to her at the desk. "So we're never getting into our apartment again. Think Charlie will be OK with us being tenants?" she says self-deprecatingly.

The corners of his mouth flick up. "We're signing on the new place in less than two weeks. We'll be out of there in no time. How did your meeting with Rebecca Halliday go?"

She lifts one shoulder. "Fine, I guess."

"I thought she was OK. For a lawyer. Did you know that Mrs. Lansing used to babysit her?"

"I did. I didn't like her much though. Can we discuss this later?"

He considers her carefully. "Sure," he hops up on the counter to give her a little kiss. He's become much more openly affectionate since the wedding. "You're back in ten."

They're dismissed at eleven, and have a quick discussion over whether to stay at ACN or make a break for it. Charlie solves it for them when he says, "I gave you my apartment, and you're still here? Don't tell me you're being noble."

"You should go stay there. It's your place."

He shrugs. "Here, the backup generators are on and I have my favorite extra suit and the backup generators are on. There, I don't know which suits I have and whether or not there is power. Go. We booked the rest of the staff at the Hilton for the night. Everyone needs sleep. Go."

She pulls on her Hunters and Don grabs the flimsy umbrella that now looks like a joke. As they're leaving, she kisses Charlie's cheek and says, "Thank you."

Outside, it's basically ten times worse than the worst rainstorm she's ever seen. The rain is coming down aggressively, and the wind keeps sending it in eighty-three directions. The streets are eerie rivers, and all of the streetlights are out. Few buildings have light, and she keeps an eye out for downed power lines. It's like they're four-fifths of the way through a sea-monster movie.

The power is unsurprisingly out at Charlie's — she reported earlier in the night that there were planned preventive outages across the city — and they take the stairs up, pausing at the base of the stairwell to try and dry off. Don tries shaking his arms out, and his curls flick water at Sloan. She laughs, and is surprised how hard and tired and foreign it sounds. "You OK?" he asks.

"It's been a long day," she says. "And I'm standing in a dark stairwell wringing water out of my hair."

"Fair point," he says. "Let's get dry clothes. Come on."

Upstairs the apartment is drenched in darkness, and they move carefully through the unfamiliar space. Don miscalculates a wall's placement by about five centimeters and hisses a fuck when he stubs his toe. She feels through the drawers to find two pairs of leggings, cable-knit socks, and her favorite sweater (marled gray with a cool diagonal zip), which she throws over a teal long-sleeved tee. Don slowly enters the bathroom to grab towels, and gives her a "Head's up!" before tossing one at her.

"Thanks," she says.

"I figure, since we can't shower…"

"Good idea," she affirms as she towels off her hair and hands. Don trades his wet jeans and boxers for gray flannel pants and his wet henley for a dry henley (his wardrobe is ridiculously predictable).

"If we break open one of Charlie's bottles of wine, how much do you think we'll owe him?"

"Hopefully no more than two hundred," she says lightly. "It's worth it." They pad out to the living room, where she arranges the two dozen candles she bought across the coffee table, the windowsill, and the breakfast bar, and Don digs through the drawers for a corkscrew and glasses.

"So, uh, the deposition prep didn't go well?" he calls from the kitchen.

She sighs as she punches fluff into the throw pillows. "I didn't — I respect she's a great lawyer and she's good for the case. It'll be fine."

"What did she ask about?"

She sighs as she flops against the couch. "Whether or not we got married to cover something up. If I trusted you with Maggie. Really great, non-personally-invasive stuff that was completely related to Genoa."

He laughs. "She did not."

"She did."

"What did you say?"

"Well, first I told her that it was offensive and I prefered insinuations that I was pregnant."

He laughs. "And then what?"

"She told me that if I were pregnant, it would be a lot easier to explain off!" She blows a piece of hair off her face. She feels all sorts of off. Don brings her a glass of wine and shoves her feet aside so he can put them in his lap. She takes a sip. Damn, Charlie has good taste in 's one of his best qualities, honestly. "It sounds like they're worried that Dantana's going to say that we did something and got married to invoke spousal privilege. Or that your judgment was biased because you used to date Maggie."

"Well," he says after a beat. "This'll be fun."

"It's going to be bad, Don," she says miserably. God, she is so tired. "I ... don't think I realized that. Mac and Will and Charlie — they're going to lose their jobs."

"No they won't. And if they do we'll quit."

"We will?"

"Yes. We gave them the story — vetted it, produced it, fact-checked it. If they get fired unfairly because of that we should go to."

She considers it. They'll be fine, financially. She could teach for a while, do a column, Sunday morning shows. And he'd be scooped up by NBC or CNN within hours. "A matter of principle," she says.

"Damn straight," he says. "But they won't and you know why?"

"Why?"

"Rebecca Halliday is smart. Mrs. Lansing is smart. No way they look at the facts and think there was institutional failure. Nobody's getting fired. We'll be fine."

She sighs and takes a sip of wine. "We should still resign though. We were Red Team, we were paid to be skeptical. We weren't skeptical enough." she says as she realizes. They're in so much trouble; they're taking the fall for the rest of them. Will probably won't work again, just like Dan Rather. For Mac, this — on top of the ongoing mess with Will, on top of Pakistan, on top of the entire fragile existence she's constructed in New York, built entirely around her feelings of professional self-worth — will probably cause an existential meltdown. Her best friend will crack, hard and permanently and unbelievably fast. Because they didn't do their jobs.

"Hey, hey, hey. No. We raised our objections — terrorism, the election. We were skeptical."

She bites the rim of the wine glass lightly, contemplating. There's something so vaguely unnerving and portentous about the entire situation. Actually, there's nothing vague; it's just portentious and unnerving. And all of it happening during a honest-to-god hurricane — now, that's just a bonus from the gods of irony and sardonicism. "Fine, then. But once the first domino — the tape — fell, we all contributed to the rest falling. We're on the ship, just as much as Will and Mac and Charlie are."

"Yes, but …"

"What?"

"You're awfully … hard on yourself, on everyone, tonight. You're usually more …"

"Logical."

"Honestly? Sane. Come on, babe. You're scared; you had a long day, and it's been insane lately. But remember, Sloan, he —"

"Fucked it up, I know," she stares out the window, then back at him, lips pursed. "Did we rush things?"

"What?" he asks. "You mean, us? The wedding?"

"Not that — not that I don't want to be married to you."

"That's all of it, then."

"No. We got married six days after the biggest fuckup of either of our careers, as literally the world was crashing down around us. It — It does look desperate. It does look impulsive. And I trust you and I love you, but I don't want this … marred. I don't want people thinking we got married because of Genoa or because we were pregnant or because we were sleep-deprived."

"If they do? Fuck them. There are two people that matter to this relationship — you and me. Do you believe that? Honestly, did that factor into your decision?"

"Of course not," she says. "Not even a little bit, Don."

"Mine, either. And nobody who knows us thinks those things either. This bullshit, that Rebecca Halliday just put in your head? It'll blow over in a few days. All of this will."

"Do you really think that? Because I think it'll get worse before it gets better."

"OK, Genoa's going to take a little bit longer. But you know how I know we didn't get married because we were stressed out or covering up something about Genoa?"

"How?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Because things have gotten exponentially worse since we got married," he shrugs. "And you know what? We're making it. We're doing fine. You … trusted me way more than you should have, when we were starting out. Remember? Can you … trust me now?"

"I trust you, Don."

"I know. But on this." He kisses her knuckles. "Gotta tell you, it's a little weird being the optimist here."

"Please, your cynic-with-a-secret-nougat-center schtick wore off months ago."

He smiles ruefully. "Come on. I think we both need sleep. And my mom always said things look brighter in the morning."

"Alright then," she says, and they carefully blow out candles and shuffle to the bedroom. She curls in the strange bed, still freezing, and he slides in behind her. He's asleep after a quick kiss to her neck, but she lies there for a while, tucked away anonymously in New York City listening to the storm rage on. She thinks about the Rockaways and the babies at NYU and the rest of the people in her building and the family of the woman who was struck by a tree, and she hopes they're alright.

She hopes they're alright too.

She's not convinced they will be.


	22. The Universe is Shaped Exactly Like the Earth, if You Go Straight Long Enough, You'll End Up Where You Were

May

The plane lands with a jerky bump, shaking Don immediately out of a deep slumber. He’s temporarily and profoundly disoriented: “Where are we?” he asks.

Beside him, Sloan’s shuffling papers. “We’re at JFK.”

“Right,” he says, awareness seeping through his body. Finally. “What day is it?”

“I … am not sure. I hope Saturday,” she says. “That’s when we were supposed to get back, right?”

“I … think,” he says, cracking his neck. “Whatcha doing? Is that work?” 

They’ve just spent two weeks in Phuket, literally fourteen thousand miles away from everything. They had one rule — no work. It was gloriously successful: Their two-bedroom villa had been the most serene, remote place Don had ever been, quiet and with views of beach, sand, and trees, and nothing else; there was no TV, not even in the resort bar; and their phones were powered off and on their kitchen counter. If something terrible had happened, they would not have known until … well, until now. 

And honest to god, he loved it. There was food, and drinks, and some activities (snorkeling, temple tours, massages, canoeing, shopping excursions, elephant ride, a really scary muay Thai bout, restaurants), but mostly just sleep, sun, and sex. The staff at Amanpuri had been discreet to the point of invisible, bringing a breakfast spread into the living room without detection every morning and lighting a fire in the fireplace when they’d been out on evening walks. Their villa had had a private pool, and they’d spent hours on the deck, Sloan slippery and solid between his hands and only occasionally clothed in one of the twelve bikinis she had brought.

They’d joked about abandoning New York and homeschooling hypothetical kids on the beach when they’d arranged for their time off, way back in September, and he’d spent the entire last day of the trip trying to convince her to miss the flight. Learning how to be married had been hard enough without the external influences. Since the wedding, they’d had an apartment sale, an apartment purchase, a hurricane, an election, a move, a lawsuit that did not go to trial, a lawsuit that did go to trial, an elementary-school shooting, holidays with both sets of their parents, a kitchen renovation, another apartment sale, an engagement party (Mac’s) a birthday (hers), a new show offer (also hers), the Boston bombing, a housewarming, the Correspondent’s Dinner (thankfully nobody got set on fire this year), and about ten work trips between the two of them. It had been a rough first six months, to say the least. Staying on the beach was way too tempting. 

She adjusts her hipster glasses and finger-combs her hair. “I”m not working,” she promises. “Well, I kind of am. But just … sketching stuff out.” She puts the pad down. “Just stuff to remember to tell Jim. Besides, vacation’s over!”  
He glances at the notebook and estimates she’s filled forty pages of ‘stuff to tell Jim.’ It’s not that surprising — her show is launching in a scant two weeks, and she’s preoccupied with making sure it goes well. “Don’t say that,” he groans, head hitting his knees, and she absentmindedly runs her fingers through his curls. “Though, by the way, I am going to enjoy watching you be his boss.” 

She laughs throatily, and reaches down to pinch his arm. “Mean!” she exclaims. “I am going to be great.”

“Yeah, you are,” he smiles. “So what are you doing?” he yawns.

“Outlining the show from the top, but also trying to sketch out where to go in-depth. Figuring out that balance, you know?” She flips through some of her papers to find something. “Selecting features.” 

“You still want to do the gun-control show too?”

She looks at him in surprise as people start unbuckling and moving toward the overhead bins. It was an idea they’d discussed, post-Boston, to put together a special together, her anchoring, him producing. But they hadn’t brought it up since (mostly because of the no-work rule). “Yeah. I do. Do you?”

“Of course I do. I said I did, and I meant it.” He flips the hatch on the overhead compartment and grabs their carry-ins. He accidentally bumps a guy in bedouin robes (they'd connected in Dubai). He apologies hastily and hopes he wasn’t inadvertently culturally insensitive.

They pass the time getting off the gangway and waiting in the customs line chatting about the show; what gossip they might’ve missed (has Jim asked Maggie out? The world is waiting); what time it is (Sloan swears it’s noon, he swears it’s five p.m. They check the clock and realize it’s two and they're both screwed); the terribleness of airport ACN; and who has to pick up Clem from the kennel tomorrow (Sloan loses rock, paper, scissors; he gloats). He tries passing out in the cab, but Sloan shakes him awake, sternly reminding him of how bad his night’s sleep is going to be if he crashes now.   
The apartment is clean and gloriously quiet when they get in — Clem will change the second part as soon as she gets home. He drags the suitcases into the bedroom as Sloan plugs in their dead phones in the kitchen and roots through the pantry for any remaining food. “I think we should just go to the deli. Not only is there nothing here that looks like it’s still good, I don’t trust myself to operate any machinery right now.” 

“We could just go to sleep now and that would solve everything,” he suggests. He’s way too tired to drag himself down to the deli. “What time is it in Thailand?” 

Sloan squints at the microwave’s clock, currently displaying 3:51. “It’s about midnight, I think,” she says slowly. “I’m terrible at time zones, you know this.” She really is. It’s almost endearing, how bad the math genius is at telling time. 

“And we left yesterday.”

“I think. This is confusing,” she looks down at their phones. “Do we want to turn them on?”

“God no. Remember how many emails there were when we were in Costa Rica? Let’s not.” He looks over at their perpetually-forgotten landline: The machine has eight messages. That’s doable. He punches play.

The first message is their cable provider, asking if they want an upgrade — “Delete,” Sloan says, unearthing some quinoa. The second is a sales call asking if they’re satisfied with their life insurance. “Delete,” he mutters. Message three is from their super, warning of a water stoppage that happened five days ago, and he deletes that too. 

“You have to rinse quinoa first, right?” Sloan asks, scrunching her face at the plastic bag like it’s a diaper to be changed. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Message four is his mother saying, “Hi Don, hi Sloan, I know you’re on your honeymoon, but I tried both your cells and your work lines, and I got that your inboxes were full —”

“Fuck,” Sloan groans. He thinks she’s talking about the ‘your inboxes were full’ thing, because that’s miserable, but nope, she scorched her finger with the water.

“You OK?” he asks as his mother rambles about Mason's new drum set.

“Yeah.”

“— anyways, like I said, I didn’t really have a reason to call so —”

“Delete?” he asks.

“Delete,” Sloan agrees. “If we don’t have vegetables, what can we put on quinoa? Do you think we could do tomato sauce?”   
Gross. He flips open the pantry. “Canned chickpeas, canned artichoke hearts, and canned red peppers?” he asks.

“Sure,” she shrugs. This is exactly why she doesn't cook. 

Beep. “Hey, Don, it’s Darrell. I know you and Sloan are on your honeymoon — congrats, man, by the way — but I’ve left messages on your other phones and emailed you, and I wanted to make sure it didn’t get lost in the shuffle. I’d love to grab lunch with you soon, if you’re free. Catch up. Are you back Sunday? If so, and you get this before then, let’s say then.” Beep.

“That’s strange,” he says as he deletes the remaining messages (automated bill-pay reminder from the electric company; Ned from Auto Insurance   
Direct asking if they’re happy with their current car insurance; Sloan’s OB-GYN reminding her of an appointment on Friday, which she’s already missed. Whoops.). 

“Is that Darrell from when you worked at Newsweek?”

“Yeah. He’s at CBS now. I haven’t spoken to him in months.” He’s … associate national news director? Something. 

“You wanna get brunch with him tomorrow?”

“Lunch, not brunch. Two men don’t get brunch, Sloan.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Do you want to get lunch with him tomorrow, then?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Do you want to do something tomorrow?” He loops his arms around her waist and perches his chin on her shoulder to peek at her very questionable dinner. She’s trying to salvage it by tossing onion powder and salt on it. He scrunches his nose. Maybe they should just order takeout. 

She kisses him lightly. “I love you, but I’ve spent the last two weeks with you. I really just want to get brunch with Carrie and Taylor and show off my tan and brag about how many times we had sex.” 

He grins, nipping and suckling lightly at her collarbone. She swats him away to deal with the quinoa but he’s persistent, running his hands up under her sweatshirt and over the Lululemon capris she’d worn on the plane. “We’re at what? Eighteen? Let’s go for twenty,” he wheedles, biting her ear.

She laughs and turns off the stove, the battle lost, and starts dragging him to the living room. “Only if you promise never to use such a smarmy line again,” she retorts, kissing him full in the mouth as he lowers them both onto the sofa. 

They order Indian for dinner, get to an even twenty in two weeks, and pass out around eight. The next day, Sloan heads way downtown to meet her Carrie the Confused Democrat and Taylor the Honorable Republican at Russ and Daughters, and he heads over to Jacob’s Pickle to meet Darrell.   
He’s already grabbed a tiny table. “Hey, man,” Darrell says, rising to give him a back-slap. “Honestly, surprised you wanted to meet with me today. Are you dead from jet lag?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Sloan made us stay up to eight last night, though, so hopefully getting better. Gotta be able to produce Elliot’s show tomorrow night, at any rate.”

“Good honeymoon? Where’d you guys go?”

“The best. Thailand. We were pretty serious that we wanted to get far, far away,” he smiles. “Anyways. How’s Josh?” 

“Being married to a chef is problematic for the waistline, let me tell you,” Darrell grins. They discuss family and work for a while, until Darrell says, 

“You probably wonder why I called you up out of the blue.” 

“You didn’t just want the pickles? I’m just here for the pickles.” Because they’re delicious. 

“Nah,” he smiles. “Though they’re tasty. You remember Rachel McQwery?” 

“The one who spells her last name without a u? Yeah,” he says. “Your politics director, right?” 

“Yeah. She’s moving to Politico. Associate editor at the magazine.”

“Good for them,” he says. He’s only met her a couple of times, but she’s great.

“So we have an opening,” Darrell says, taking a bite of his fried BLT. “You interested?”

“In politics director?” 

“This year’s only going to get more interesting, and next year are the midterms,” he says. “Whatever you’re making now, it’s a salary jump. You’d oversee about sixty staffers.”

“How much travel?”

“Down to D.C. at least twice a month, probably,” he shrugs. “The Face the Nation team would report to you so you’d have to be pretty hands-on.” 

“I’ve barely done politics.”

“Bullshit,” Darrell says affably. “You practically ran ACN’s election coverage in addition to EP-ing your own show. Everyone knows Mac McHale’s strength is international, not domestic, and that Chad on the national desk is actually an empty suit.” 

“Mostly a wet blanket, but I’m serious! I’m not Tapper or Todd.” 

“Thank God for that,” Darrell retorts. “I’m serious too. You’re our first choice. Think about it.”

“Thanks man,” he says. 

When he gets home, Sloan has picked up the dog and they’re both on the balcony — Clem appears to be helping Sloan answer emails (they’d both had upwards of 8,000 when they’d finally turned their phones on yesterday). “Hey,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. “How was brunch?”

“Everyone was suitably impressed.”

“With the tan or …”

She smirks. “Both.”

“As they should be,” he grins. “Hey, I passed one of those street fairs you like on the way home. Want to check it out?”

“Does Charlie like bourbon?” she grins. Save perhaps for new issues of The Economist, there are few things Sloan loves more than twelve-dollar mini-jars of locally sourced lavender honey from wholesalers based in Brooklyn. “Let me find a sweater.”

“It’s May,” he calls as she dashes inside.

“It’s freezing. Leash Clementine, will you?” 

Twenty minutes later, they’re wandering between booths of apples cider pressed in the Hudson Valley and maple syrup trucked down from Vermont and cheese cultured in Queens. There’s a face-painting station with a long line of kids, and a guy with a guitar playing (of course) Jason Mraz. Sloan’s in oversized, incognito everything: a dark-blue maxi dress; an enormous gray ikat-print cardigan with black leather sleeves (he knows what the fuck ikat is now, and he’s proud of it); huge Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. It makes her look very tiny as she slips her hands around his forearms. He’s got one hand on Clem’s leash and the other in his pocket as they navigate the toddlers on strider-bikes and the moms with strollers. It’s sunny but not too warm, and they’re surrounded by chatty laughter. They sample a spicy pepperoni pizza and split two fish tacos as they stare at a metalworkers’ booth. Sloan buys hand-stamped thank-you cards for the housewarming from a printmaker based in Hoboken. It’s a good life. 

“I never asked — how was Darrell?” Sloan asks as she smells some lilies. “We should get an invite over to his place for dinner — Josh is supposed to be an amazing cook.”

“Yeah, he’s at Blue Hill now,” Don says. “It’s good. He — he offered me a job.” 

Sloan’s eyes bug out. “That’s amazing, Don! Producing?”

“No. Editing and managing,” he says. “Politics director for CBS News.” 

She cocks her head. She can tell he’s not entirely enthused. “That sounds great.” 

“I’d be supervising Face the Nation,” he points out, letting the implication hang.

“So you’d be traveling to D.C. a lot?” she confirms. “That’s fine. We travel a lot as-is.” 

“One of us is gone once or twice a month for a couple of days. That’s not what this would be. I could end up in D.C. half time.” 

“We’d be fine with that. Hell, I could go work out of D.C. for a couple of days if it got stressful.”

“Not with your new show,” he points out. “And … I don’t know. Politics really isn’t my thing, you know.” He’s more of a domestic-policy guy. 

“Please. News is your thing, Don. And this has a lot of ties to your other things. You’d be in a better position to bring the hammer of Thor down onto politicians and candidates about the issues you care about. CBS is definitely going to get debates in 2016 and you would get to EP those, and you’d probably be a consulting producer for Pelley, I’m guessing?” 

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “I’m proud of you for that Marvel reference, by the way.” 

She cocks her head, confused at how blase he is. “And I’m guessing it’s more money?”

“Sloan, your salary will actually add a zero to the end of it starting June 1. I don’t care about the fucking money.” 

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Keefer?” she asks bluntly as she hands over ten dollars for four apples grown by the Amish in Pennsylvania.

“Tossup between airline pilot and pro tennis player,” he shoots back. 

“I’m serious,” she says. “I always thought —” she stops.

“What?”

“I … I kinda have always thought you wanted Charlie’s job. Or hell, Reese’s. Eventually. Or Charlie’s job or Reese’s job at another network. But since we met, that’s where I thought you were heading. You became the EP of a primetime broadcast at thirty-two, Don. It’s not Zuckerian, but it’s damn close. You don’t do that without wanting something else later, and I thought it was —”

“No. You’re right,” he cuts off her rambling. She really does know him damn well. 

“Ha!” she says triumphantly. “So why are you hesitating? This would be a good stepping stone. And not for nothing, you’d be great at it.” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, I’m not sure it’s the stepping stone I want.” He thinks back to his conversation with Rebecca Halliday on election night. “I like where   
I am, right now. I like what I’m doing.”

“You won’t know if you’d like this until you try it.”

He shrugs as he squeezes a tomato to test out its density. “I’m not interested in trying it. Being at a network not producing and not focusing on the stuff I’m most interested in would be confining. I don’t think I’d be able to do as much longform stuff, like the docu we want to put together. And I don’t think I’d be able to run the war room. ACN lets me do a bigger variety of stuff — elections, international, domestic policy, special interest, whatever. I’m in with Charlie. And hell, Sloan, I wouldn’t be running a show. I’d be producing segments and overseeing stuff. And I like running the whole show.”

She pats his cheek fondly. “You’re my favorite control freak, you know.” She reaches up to kiss him, then pulls away to study him closely. He can tell she’s not entirely convinced. “Even if you don’t take it, I still think you should use this offer to negotiate something with Charlie.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees. He’d told her to do the same, and he isn't not going to take his own advice. He gathers the five tomatoes and takes the fresh basil plant in her hands and pays. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Sabbith?” 

“Difference is, I am grown up,” she answers tartly. “I’ve been grown up since I was five years old.” 

“Seriously. You want eight p.m. one day?” Somehow, he can’t see her staying in journalism forever, though it doesn’t really matter. He’s learned he has to be OK with whatever happens — over the course of the next fifty years, he’s pretty sure that no matter how much intention and thought they put into their plans, they’ll be derailed. Dramatically. Before they got married, he thought he knew how truly limited anyone’s agency in this world was, between family and economic circumstances, between gender and sexual orientation and access to healthcare and education. But marriage reduces that limited agency to an infinitesimally smaller ratio: Her decisions are his, and vice versa. Things that happen to one of them, good or bad, happen to them both now. It’s different, much different, than dating. They’re a unit. He’s traded certainty in his career for faith in her. 

And the goddamn thing is, he likes everything a lot better this way. 

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I want — I don’t think I’m done, in journalism. I think I’m just getting started. It’s a good place to influence people, to educate the public, to have an effect on the electorate and Congress, right now. But I don’t know if it’s always going to be the best place. And I want to stay teaching, no matter how crazy our lives and careers get.”

“You could be the president of a think tank, or something,” he suggests. “Academics with a more real-world impact. Get a column or a talk show.”

“Maybe,” she says, intrigued. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? You and me, we have adventures ahead of us, pal.” 

“Speaking of,” he says. “Want to grab Charlie sometime this week and pitch him on the special?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Tuesday?” 

“Works for me,” he says. “Let’s hammer out the blocks before we present it to him.” 

“Deal,” she says. “I think we just have the honey booth, and then I’m done. Do you think they’ll have that lemon-basil honey from last time?” she goes off in search of it.

“God I hope not,” he mutters. He looks at Clem. “That stuff was disgusting, baby girl.” Clem whines in agreement, and he smiles. 

Later, as they’re on the couch, her toes tucked under his thighs as they plot out the special on notecards and laptops, she says, “You sure you’re OK with not taking the offer?” 

“Sloan,” he groans.

“I’m serious,” she exclaims. “I want to talk about it.”

“We did! This afternoon!” 

“It’s a good offer,” she says, dropping her notepad on the ground. She slouches downwards, crossing her arms in front of her. It’s one of her many Means Business poses. 

“It’s a good offer,” he agrees. “It’s not the right offer.” 

“I want to make sure you’re actually considering it,” she says, getting up and pacing. 

“What am I not considering? I’ve thought about the salary, the position, and the travel. I’ve thought about the network and the constraints of broadcast. I’ve thought about the duties. I’m not really interested.” 

“But there’s no rational reason for you to turn down the offer. I started thinking of irrational reasons to turn it down. Option A is you being overprotective to the point of self-sacrifice. Which is a thing, that you do.” she says. She takes a deep breath. “I’m going to be OK, on the new show, you know.”

“Sloan. Of course you are.” He knows two things in life are true: One, he loves Sloan. And two, she will be awesome at anything she sets her mind to. 

“I don’t want you to think you need to stay at ACN to be some sort of … security blanket as I launch the show,” she says, suddenly looking like a lost little girl.

“Sloan. I promise. You think I’m not taking a job so I can take a back seat to your career? Hell no. My career is just as — no more, no less — important as yours. Feminism is a two-way street, babe.” When he thinks about it, it’s not a crazy line of thought, just so, so off-base. He’s not trying to produce her; he’s trying to be her partner.

“Because I will be fine,” she reasserts, studying him carefully. "I can do this."

“Sloan,” he says quizzically. “I know. When — when the fuck have I been anything but honest about your strengths and weaknesses as a journalist? Seriously. I’m not going to lie and say you’re going to be great just because I’m married to you. I respect you too much. You’re going to be great because you’re awesome and you kick ass and you’ve earned this. Besides,” he cracks, to make her smile. “You’re hot but not that hot.” 

“I am all kinds of hot,” she protests, her voice rising. She’s suppressing a smirk, so he knows she’s being self-aware.

“I know,” he leans forward to capture her lips in a kiss. “Nobody is that hot, is what I’m saying. Alright?”

“Fine. But Irrational Rational Reason Option B to turn this down: You might not be staying for me, but because of me. You shouldn’t do that.”

“You’re using your prepositions in all sorts of nuanced ways,” he observes. 

“We have a good thing, working together and being married together. It’s nice. It’s fun. I like it too. But I don’t want you to stay just because I’m there and safe and easy.”

“Sloan, I mean this in the nicest possible way: You are never easy.” 

She’s faux-affronted. “I slept with you on the first date.”

“Wasn’t a date. First date wasn’t for three weeks.”

“Anyways. You’re making my point. We’re here, we’re solid, and I don’t want you to miss out on a good career move so we can get lunch together and you can hide in my office whenever you get dry and someone gets angry. I think you could and should have Charlie’s job, or Reese’s job. You should move up, and I … I don’t want to hold you back,” she says, her voice disarmingly thick.

“Sloan, you don’t,” he says, standing to cross to where she is. “If anything, you’re the one that pushes me forward.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she brings up her hand to link with his loosely around her neck. 

“You’re not just saying that because I rocked your world twenty times in thirteen days?” 

“I’m not saying that’s not a nice perk, but no,” he laughs. 

“Then, as the person who pushes you forward, I think you should take it.” 

“Yes, I like working with you, and that’s something I need to take into account when making this decision. But look at this, Professor,” he holds up their sheaf of papers. “Yes, I’m excited to do this with you. But I’m also excited because we’re going to hit hard on gun control. Charlie’s going to let us — he’s going to let ACN do this type of project, after its credibility was nearly destroyed six months ago by Genoa. That’s faith. That’s trust. That’s seven years of me earning his respect and the rest of everyone else at ACN. I’m not stupid enough to throw that away for a salary bump. And the fact that I’m smart enough to know better now? That, there — Sloan, that’s all you. You’re never easy, this working together and being married — is rarely easy, honestly. But it’s worth it, and ACN at this point — it’s part of the package. I’m not giving it up.” 

She studies him. “You think we should lead off the B with a look at the frequency of school shootings?” she asks, and they’re back on track.  
Monday is all email answering, and he ends up staying at the office until a mind-boggling 1:30 a.m. Tuesday they pitch Charlie on the special over a lunch of street hot dogs (they’re not terribly good; Sloan ends up tossing hers because it makes her queasy). After they get the go-ahead from Charlie to put together a narrative outline, Sloan realizes she’s borderline late to promo-filming and dashes off, her purse and coat swinging behind her.

He and Charlie linger. “Hey. I never asked. How was the honeymoon?” Charlie says. “No details.” 

“Relaxing,” Don finally settles on, but with a shit-eating grin. They stand to walk back inside, and he knows he needs to bring it up. “Listen. I feel the need to tell you, because I respect you, as a journalist and as my boss but also … as a friend. I had lunch with Darrell Bradley on Sunday.” 

“He’s … assistant director for national news at ABC, right?”

“CBS,” Don corrects. 

“Ah,” Charlie says, knowing what’s up. “He wants you to jump.” 

“He’s got a job open. Politics director.” 

Charlie works his jaw. “That’s a good opportunity, Donny.” 

“It is. You don’t seem surprised.”

“You’re good. You came here good and seven years later, you’re even better. It’s not surprising,” he says, his voice borderline sing-songing. He’s half-sarcastic, but there’s also some disappointment layered underneath that Don doesn’t like.

“I … can’t read you right now. Which I think is intentional on your part,” Don rambles, trying not to sound insecure. Surely Charlie doesn’t think he’d just abandon ship.

“What, would I be sad to lose you? Of course! I think you’re an invaluable asset to this network, an intrepid producer, a first-rate mind, and you’re going to go far, very far, in this business. Do I feel betrayed by you jumping ship? No,” Charlie says.   
“I’m not jumping ship. I’m considering my options!”

“Great. I’m saying you should. Entropy happens. Things change. With you and Sloan — things only get more complicated from here on out. Take it from me. You two planning on having kids?”

“Not for a while,” Don says, suddenly unsure of where this conversation is going.

“I’m just saying, life gets messy, Don, and work, home — it’s not a bad thing, to give things space. Good to let things grow. You think working together, raising children together, is going to be easy?"

“OK, this? Is an hourlong special, Charlie. We renovated a kitchen. I formed an opinion on jadeite cookware. Jadeite! And she agreed five hundred bucks was too much for a food processor,” he says, suddenly unnerved. 

"What I’m saying is, this is a good offer, and I think you should consider it. If you want to stay, yes, I will throw money at you. Does that make you feel better about yourself?”

“A little bit,” he admits. He’s not sure what to think, now. “Anyways. Sloan wants me to consider it. And it’s an attractive offer — more money, bigger footprint. And if I don’t take it, she thinks I’m staying for her, which doesn’t make her very happy.”

“And you want a counter-offer because you want to stay working with her and need something to tell her,” Charlie surmises. 

“Not so I can stay working with her. I wouldn’t be staying for her,” he takes a deep breath, and he’s suddenly not sure what to think. If Sloan likes it and Charlie likes it, it suddenly feels like the world is spinning. “I’m letting you know out of a courtesy, Charlie. I need to know what my options are to weigh them. If this is it, fine, but I … need to know.” 

“I got it. Tell you what. You make it through this documentary with Sloan, and you still think staying here is a good deal? On your next contract negotiation, you can get a fifty percent bump, first dibs at a debate, and the assistant directorship of your choice on the national news desk.” He stands up and tosses the rest of his hot dog. “That’s a promise.” 

Sloan, somewhat unusually, waits around for him to finish Right Now. She swears she's just finishing emails, but he finds her dozing in his chair. 

"You OK?" he asks, concerned. She’s never tired. She wakes up before eight on weekends. 

"Yeah," she says, slightly disoriented. "Let's go home." 

They’re answering emails in bed when Sloan says, “I never asked — did you talk to Charlie about the job offer?”

“I did, yeah,” he confirms, finishing an outline of the next show and hitting send. 

“And?” Sloan prompts.

“He wants me to think about taking it,” Don answers honestly. 

“He said that?” Sloan’s surprised. “He didn’t, you know…” She pantomimes blustery pouting. 

“No. He’s … He’s willing to offer me a salary bump to stay, but he also said that I — that we, actually — should consider it. To, you know, get some space.” 

“What?” Sloan asks.

“He said, marriage is complicated, and only gets more complicated. He wasn’t … He was trying to be supportive. I promise.” 

“It’s not like you produce my show. We barely see each other throughout the day.” 

“Weren’t you the one telling me to consider it, and now you’re all offended?” 

“Because it sounds like he’s implying we can’t handle it! And for Christ’s sakes, he’s Will and Mac’s number-one fan.”

“You’re really offended?” 

“I’m just saying, who took nine years to get together, and who got married in ten months? Point Keefers. With an s. Plural Keefers.” 

“Right, they’re such a model of success for working together,” he points out dryly. “If anything, they’re a reason to not work together, but they’re also insane in general. Anyways. He thinks the special will be a good test. I still don’t plan on taking it, because I agree with you, but that’s what he said. And you asked, so —”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she slouches down on the bed, transitioning to sleep. “I had a third irrational option, you know.” 

“What?”

“Yesterday. When I was naming all my irrational options.”

“Alien invasion?”

“No.”

“Secret affair with Mac.”

“No,” she says. “It was that you didn’t think you deserved it, honestly.” She stares at him. “It still seems strange, to me, that you would turn down an offer that is exactly what you want and need for your career path. So I was worried you … would decide you didn’t earn it, that you hadn’t … atoned for any sin you thought you committed. Or worked long enough. Then I decided that one actually was too irrational.” 

He’s quiet, because in a world not so different than the one they live in, it’s a pretty realistic scenario. But not this one. Not this one, with her and them and what they’ve built. “I haven’t thought that way … for a while,” he points out.

“I know,” she says, leaning up for a kiss. “And you never … worried about that, with your job. Just with everything else. But that’s what concerned me — I was worried that a … complex … had developed?”

“A ‘complex’? That’s borderline emasculating.” Only women — and Will, of course — get complexes.

“You know what I mean,” she said. 

“I do, and I get it, but I promise you. No.” 

“I know,” she says reassuringly, reaching out to stroke his face. “I do. I … understand. Now. It was just, I firmly believe you deserve every opportunity that comes your way, and if you get to think I’m impressive all the time, I reserve the right to think you’re pretty awesome, too, Keefer. And you deciding to turn down a position that you should, on paper, accept on the spot …” she sighs, as she articulates her thoughts. “I wanted to do the   
good-wife thing, be supportive, co-sign your decisions. But it also meant helping you make the best decision for your career.”

“Not for my career, for me. Which is also, not coincidentally, for us,” he says. “Yeah, on paper, it’s the job that five years ago I would want. Hell, two years ago — absolutely. But I want other things now too, not just personally but in the job. And this is what I want and where I want to be. I …”

“Changed, Don, the word is changed,” she says, amused when he can’t say the cliche. 

“Right,” he smirks. “Anyways. What Charlie is offering is way too much, and I’m grateful. But what I want for a job isn’t going to be the same today as it will six months from now, and …” he shrugs. “I guess we’ll have to deal with that, then.” 

She nestles sleepily into the bed. “You remember when we talked about stocks?”

“Uh, you’re going to have to be more specific, Moneyskirt.” 

“You said it wasn’t a stock to pick, it was someone to pick stocks with,” she yawns as she fits herself between and next to and on top of him. “You were right.” With a ghost of kiss to his breastbone, she’s asleep.


	23. And I thought it was strange, you said everything changed, you felt as if you'd just woke up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Another installment here. As a head's up, I should be wrapping up in the next couple weeks (3 chapters need about 1,000 more words each ... wow!). I'm really liking the last couple of installments, so hope you'll stick with me through it all! Your thoughts/encouragement have been much appreciated on this year-long-plus journey. ~Jo

Remember the time you drove all night/Just to meet me in the morning/And I thought it was strange/You said everything changed/You felt as if you'd just woke up

-First Day of My Life, Bright Eyes

January

It starts with a cough, which Don acquires shortly after they all reconvene post-holidays. He's been in Pennsylvania and then back to Manhattan, she's been in California for Christmas and New Year's and her birthday on the third, and they've been … talking. The forced separation, she thinks, actually might have been good, since they were forced to only talk — nothing else — for the week. And it's good talking, though they steer clear of their families, since that would inevitably lead to one of them saying something like, "You would really like my mom…" even though they're absolutely not ready for that.

But once she gets back (he picks her up at the airport, which is sweet and surprising and absolutely unnecessary), she notices that someone (maybe a niece? Or a nephew? She could see him with those) gave him a cold.

"It's nothing," he insists as he mindlessly throws kale, mango, banana, and almond milk into his blender for her favorite breakfast smoothie the next Saturday. "It's just —" hack, hack, "winter. You've never gotten a winter cold?"

"I have, but I treat it before I'm completely incapacitated. And don't cough on my kale, I don't want to get sick."

He rolls his eyes before plunking the top on the blender and flipping the switch. "The fact that you eat this — you know it's breakfast, right? Where you're supposed to eat pancakes, not vegetables."

"It's like an omelette without cheese. And all … blended up," she reasons, then smirks. "You're the one that's kissing me." When he moves in for a kiss, though, she backs off and holds up a hand. "Don't. You're sick."

"Seriously?" he groans.

"I'm serious! I don't want to get sick."

"You're being a little overdramatic." Hackhackwheezehack. He pours her her juice.

"And you're being all stubborn and masculine. And not in the way your shoulders are masculine, because those are awesome and this is not." She takes a sip, and it's pretty good. She should stock up on some chia seeds for his kitchen. "Do you want me to pour some of this for you? This is why I'm not sick."

"You're not sick because you were in California soaking up Vitamin D while I was in friggin Pennsylvania freezing my nuts off," he asserts. He plops a straw down into the glass, takes a drink, makes a face, starts choking, starts hacking again. "See, this made me even sicker," he grouses. "How do you even drink that?"

"What are you talking about?" she smiles, removing his straw and grabbing a clean, non-germy one. "It's delicious."

By Tuesday, the day of the New Hampshire primary, he's congested and wheezy, walking around the newsroom dropping Kleenex like he's in a German fairy tale. He sneezes all over the conference phone during a news call with Washington and hacks on Jerry Dantana, so hard the twitchy guy takes a step back (why is he even up in New York again? The primary? Whatever project he and Mac are cooking up?). Elliot spends all of the live coverage making fun of Don's 'Batman' voice, as Don feebly throws back weak comebacks between hacks and slurps and snorts. Sloan, who can hear them on her feed, raises an unimpressed eyebrow. It's disgusting.

They meet up at the Gristedes after they're finally done with live show (he turns left out of the building, she takes the direct route, they meet by the flowers and carts), and she tosses Sudafed in next to his six pack of Magic Hat. He promptly tosses it back out. "What the hell? Don, you're sick."

"Ib I'b sick, Sudafed won' helb," he says, and honest to god he sounds like an Elmer Fudd parody.

She rolls her eyes and throws it back in. "Let's just take Pascal's side," she reasons. He rolls his eyes back but she wins the argument. He takes two next to her in bed, and she realizes, with a start, that this is the first time she's stayed over and they haven't so much as fooled around. She takes in his miserable, red-nosed, swollen-eyed, appearance and unexpectedly reaches out to shove her fingers into his hair.

"Ow," he mumbles, grabbing her hand and pulling it out of his hair. "You're not still worried about getting sick?"

"I'll survive," she shrugs, lying down. She spoons him from behind, then kisses his awesome, masculine shoulder. He sucks in a wheezy rattle before coughing, and she laughs a little into his spine.

She's usually out the door before he's up, and the next day is no different. She assumes that he'll lug his stubborn ass into the office, Kleenex and OTC drugs and attitude and all, but when she notices Jim leading his staff meeting after her two, she's surprised. "Don called out sick?" she asks dumbly as Jim exits the conference room.

"Yeah?" Jim squints. "You didn't know that?"

"Of course not. Why would I know that?" she protests, as Jim just gives her A Look. She turns, because it's embarrassing, and runs into Mac. Perfect. "Kenzie," she says, "What block is my segment in tonight?"

"I think we can get you into B, if you'd like to go home to Don," Mac says breezily. "Or we could just push the segment today — you were on yesterday and we're still pretty busy with the Arab spring and ramping up to the South Carolina primary."

She wants to say no, because job before boy, but finds herself saying, "Yes. Thank you."

She impulsively leaves shortly after six, taking a pile of work with her (she's normally there till 11, for good reason. She has stuff to do. Give her a break). She stops at Gristedes to buy six kinds of soup, since she doesn't know what he likes, and five more OTC cough medications. When she gets to his building, she realizes she doesn't have keys; since she's worried he's sleeping, she waits until Magda, the Ukrainian busybody on the sixth floor, comes in with two grocery bags. "That boy's given you keys, hasn't he?" she asks suspiciously.

"I … Yes! I just, you know. Forgot. I mean, like duh," she feigns smacking herself on the forehead.

Magda isn't buying it. "I thought they, the ones on the TV, they said you were so smart."

"I'm the dumb kind of smart," she explains, and she's never been so happy for the elevator to reach Don's floor.

Her no-key problem isn't solved when she gets to his door, so she knocks, then bangs, till Don answers the door. He's in boxers and a T-shirt, and a five o'clock shadow has crept across his face at some point during the day. His hair is crinkled oddly from sleeping, and his nose is rubbed red and raw from tissue overuse. His eyes widen in surprise when he sees her. "Sloan," he says. "Why aren't you at work? You're supposed to be on in … less than an hour."

She's suddenly angry. "Mac told me to come take care of you. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I — you knew I was sick! You've been hassling me about it since Saturday."

"Yes, but I had to find out from Jim that you weren't coming in. Not coming in to work is a lot more serious than annoying everyone with your cough." She shoves the grocery bag at him. "I brought you soups." She walks around him into the apartment. "You should have texted me. Why didn't you text me?"

"I — I don't know. I forgot?"

"You forgot? You remembered to text Jim and Mac but forgot to include me? We all have iPhones. It could have been a group chat!" She holds the back of her hand up to his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I — I woke up and felt like a Mack truck had run over my lungs, backed up, and then run over my sinuses. So I thought it might be worth a sick day."

She takes the bag of soups back from him. "Did you take any medications?"

"I took some DayQuil."

"What about an expectorant?"

"An expectowhat?"

"To break up your cough. Did you take anything for that? And your fever. Did you take anything to reduce that? You're warm."

"I — I took some ibuprofin around noon."

"What about fluids? Have you taken any fluids?" she walks into the kitchen, where she knows he has a meager supply of medications. "And what about the sudafed I bought the other day?"

"I took some of that!" he says proudly.

"Great. When?"

"Uh — two? I don't know; really I've just been sleeping all day, Sloan. Everything just kinda hurts."

She runs her hand through his hair, chastened. He really does sound pitiful. "I know. But that's why you really need to take the meds." She taps out two Sudafed PM, a Mucinex, and an Aleve into her palm, then hands them to him with a glass of water.

"I can take all of these at once?" he asks skeptically.

"Yes! Take them and go back and lie down. Go on, turn on ACN. Just don't scream so loudly you lose your voice."

He looks at her skeptically before shoving all the pills into his mouth at once, chugging several gulps of water, and shuffling back out to the living room. "Good boy!" she calls.

"Bite me!" he gravel-snarks back.

She pops her head out of the kitchen two seconds later. "Hey, uh, Don?"

"Yeah?"

"What's your favorite type of soup?"

"Soup?"

"Yes, mister, your favorite type of soup. I have six. Minestrone, Italian wedding, chicken noodle, beef stew, tomato, vegetable. I … didn't know what you liked."

"Uh … tomato."

"You want a grilled cheese with that?"

"You can make grilled cheese?"

"I have skills you can't even imagine."

"Ha. Alright, then, yes."

"Got it."

"What's your favorite type of soup?"

"My favorite type of soup?"

"Yeah. For future reference."

"Miso. With seaweed, potatoes, and mushrooms."

He wrinkles his nose. "That sounds disgusting."

Fifteen minutes later, she's carrying two grilled-Gouda-and-ham sandwiches, a bowl of tomato soup, and a bowl of vegetable soup. He's flat on the couch but makes an effort to sit up.

"Don't," she nags. "You're sick."

"I have to eat, Sloan," he says, sitting up anyways. He takes the bowl from her and takes a few slurps. "You're not a bad nurse, Sabbith."

"Hidden talent," she says. "I am also a surprisingly solid skeet shooter."

"Wanna watch NewsNight? It's starting in a few."

She cocks her head. "Actually, do you want to watch a movie instead?"

"A movie?"

"Yeah," she says, pointing to his DVD shelf. He actually has one, in 2012, which in and of itself is pretty impressive. "You have, like, a million movies, and I haven't seen any of them. Want to do that instead?"

"I know I shouldn't be surprised given that you haven't seen When Harry Met Sally, but — you haven't seen any of them?"

"No," she shrugs. She's not a movie person. She doesn't get why he can't get that.

"Like, you've gone down the shelf to confirm? You have seen none of these."

"Yes," she insists.

"Half of those are journalism movies. You've never seen All the President's Men? Citizen Kane? It Happened One Night? Sleepless in Seattle? You said you've seen that."

"Ok, how is the last a journalism movie?"

"She's a reporter and his son calls into a radio show!"

"I think the bigger question is why you have a copy of it."

"It's a journalism movie. Network? Broadcast News? You work with Will and nobody's ever made you watch Network? I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore? How did you get even a third of the jokes made after his Northwestern speech?"

"I promise you, besides Sleepless in Seattle, I have never seen any of these."

His jaw drops. "Well, we're going to have a few movie nights." He scrambles up, grabs two DVDs, puts them behind his back. "Pick one."

"Pick one?"

"Right or left, Sabbith."

"Alright. Left."

He pulls out Roman Holiday, the other choice, she can see, is His Girl Friday. Another day. "Alright, Princess Ann, we're watching this."

"Is that Gregory Peck?" she asks, stretching to see the cover image.

"Yup. And Audrey Hepburn. Tell me you've at least seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?" She's silent. "Oh my god," he runs both hands through his hair. "I don't know why I'm surprised anymore."

"Come on, you have a headache. Don't hurt your head any more."

"You're lucky this movie is amazing."

"Holding you to that, mister. You're not making me watch Network tonight?"

"Nah. Not tonight. This is better for now, trust me."

She lifts his head into her lap as newsreel footage of Princess Ann No-Country-Named sets in. They watch the endless parties, the sedative-induced meet-cute, the escape from the dance on the boat, Gregory Peck's fights with his editors, the frolicking through Rome on a Vespa, the ice-cream-eating. It's an enchanting movie and, as Princess Ann takes the final questions from Joe and Irving and the rest of the reporters, she finds herself tearing up.

"You liked it?" he asks as she stretches in a post-movie haze.

"Yeah," she says. "But it was sad!"

"Well, yeah, but — it's still an incredible movie."

"I hate sad movies," she explains. "I didn't watch Titanic until this fall."

"Well, that movie is sad because it's bad," Don says, propping his head up on his hand. "This is sad, sure, but at least Joe and Ann got those couple days. They connected. And they'll have those couple days for the rest of their lives."

She settles down next to him, cognizant that he's still recovering. "We'll have to — later on, we should watch the rest of them. Your journalism movies. If you want, I mean."

"I — I would. If you want, I do." He uses the remote to turn to Elliot's show. "I'm really sorry I didn't text you earlier when I decided not to come in."

"Hey. It's fine."

"No, it's not. I thought about it but decided against it, so no, it's not."

"You thought about texting me and then decided against it?" She's trying to fight a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"I didn't want to bug you — I couldn't tell if —"

"If what? I'm missing something." She doesn't like how accusatory her voice sounds.

"If we told each other when we were sick."

She sits back. "Oh," she says.

"I mean, I guess we are? So I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright," she says. "I guess … I guess I didn't know we were either."

"You know, my fear of commitment, your trust issues, we're doing alright here," he says, half-joking.

"I don't have trust issues!" she protests. He raises an eyebrow. "I normally … have trust issues. I … trust you though," she says, considering. It's true. Their friendship — where she witnessed enough warning signs to know that she should have trouble trusting him — has vaccinated her against any minefield. She knows him, the good and the bad, already, and she likes him because of and in spite of everything she knows about him. She knows he won't fuck with her. He's already terrified of whatever this is going south, and she gets that. She is too. She hopes their mutual fear prevents them from fucking it up long enough that they can get comfortable. She wants that, she wants this, but she is honestly not sure they can do it.

"Until I give you a reason to doubt," he says.

"You won't," she shakes her head. He's different with her than he is with other people. "Though I do think we're at the point where we can start being honest, yeah?"

"Honest?"

"That thing you do where you tell the truth?" she says, suddenly concerned.

"No — I mean, you haven't been honest for the past month?"

"No! I mean, if we're pissed, we have to say that we're pissed; if we're sick, we let the other person know; if we don't want to see the movie or go to dinner we say so instead of pretending or making up an excuse."

"I got it."

"I mean, we don't have to," she backtracks, though honestly, they do. They tap-dance around things and they need to stop.

"No. It's good. We gotta talk. That's …. that's what you do."

She evaluates him. "Alright. Let's get you to bed. You think you'll make it in tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'm not trusting Jim to handle the show again."

"You sound better," she says, finding his flannel shirt that she's commandeered. She's out of clothes now; she'll have to swing by her place before going into work. Wait. She has jeans she can rewear and then just raid wardrobe.

"Probably that drug cocktail you gave me," he smiles, then starts to get confused when she starts unzipping her dress. "Wait. You're staying?"

She pauses mid-unzip. "Yes?" she says. "Do you — is that OK?"

"Yeah. I mean, you didn't want to get sick."

"I stayed last night and you were sicker yesterday," she points out.

"Oh, yeah," he shrugs. "I guess so."

"Do you need … water or anything?" she asks, yanking on his shirt.

He shakes his head. "I'm good. You sure … I'll probably cough a lot. And toss and turn. Maybe I should sleep on the couch."

"What the hell has gotten into you? I'm not making you sleep on the couch when it's your bed and you're the one that's sick. Come on Keefer," she grins. "Man up. I don't have cooties."

He slides into bed gingerly, angling so he's facing her, and she flips off the lights. "You really don't have to stay," he says.

"You say that one more time and I am going home," she threatens.

"But I am glad you did," he says. Then, quietly, as if he's scared of what she'll say back, he says, "You and me, this is good, right? This … is happening?"

"I … think it is," she says, nervous now too. Because he does have commitment issues. And she does have trust issues. And together they could very easily destroy each other. There are stakes here, pretty big ones. "That's OK, right?"

"Yeah," he breathes, with a smile. "Yeah, it's OK."


	24. We've only just begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Next installment up. It's a little bifurcated, but I think it gets at the themes of working together, being partners, and the inherent stress involved in it. Working valiantly to wrap this up soon. Let me know what you think!

April

Sidling up to the bar, Sloan says, "Gin and tonic, hold the tonic." She flicks her hair over her shoulder and looks around. The patio of the French Ambassador's residence is loud, hot, over-decorated, and probably the last place on earth she would like to be. There is purple mood lighting. She starts mentally listing the places she would rather be: jail, the Arctic, an oil tanker off the coast of Africa are the first three places.

The bartender slides the drink over with a sympathetic simper. "Long day, sweetheart? Fight with the boyfriend?"

She glares at him pointedly. "No, but my husband kept me up all night giving me three screaming orgasms."

"You know, Sloan, that's the kind of remark that gets you into the tabloids," Will says from behind her as the shocked bartender stares on. "Scotch, on the rocks, please."

"I only care about when they print untrue things," she retorts as the creep walks away. She looks around. "How long do you think we have to stay until Charlie lets us go?"

"It's the Correspondents' Dinner afterparty, not a gulag," Will says, sweeping a hand across the expanse of the Vanity Fair-hosted fete, where New York and Washington's most awkward journalists are mingling hopefully with Hollywood's elite. Mostly, the latter group is being forced to politely take selfies with the former. "Come on, enjoy yourself."

"The only reason all of us had to come down to D.C. was to mitigate any Genoa fallout. I don't cover straight politics, ergo, I think I should be excused."

It has officially been the longest two weeks of Sloan's life, the week of Genoa/Benghazi/her wedding excepted (how was that only six months ago?). Two bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon twelve days ago, where her two youngest sisters had been running. Both had finished already and were fine, but the near near-death experience wracked her with guilt: Prior to the bombing, she hadn't spoken to them since her birthday in January. Don had (again) been appointed director of the war room (he needed an official promotion, stat) for the event, and during the manhunt, he'd been working actual twenty-hour days. He had not gone home from Wednesday through Sunday — she had brought him clothing and food whenever she got a chance, but he'd worn the same flannel shirt for fifty-two straight hours at one point. Elliot had headed to Boston the day of the bombings, so she'd taken over ten for him in addition to her two afternoon shows, News Night appearances, and prep for her new show, set to launch in June after their honeymoon. She was working six-to-eleven most days as well, only going home to sleep because part of her job description included 'look pretty.' An explosion at a chemical plant outside Waco had only compounded the insanity.

She is exhausted, and only has to get through one more week before she could peace out to Thailand for her honeymoon. Charlie had insisted they all attend this damned dog-and-pony show to make nice with all the congressmen they've collectively pissed off in the last three years. At least she made it through the rope line and dinner without setting Jack Lew on fire. She supposes that's a good thing. But she is irritated, and tired, and she and Don are spending tomorrow with her three sisters, her brother-in-law, and her nieces, so tomorrow is a long day too. All she would really like to do now is sleep, please. She had five work days left before they go to Thailand, and she's not entirely positive she'll make it.

"Your new show launches in six weeks and you'll need them all then," Charlie says, appearing from behind her. She knows this, but really is too tipsily tired to care. "Come on, Keefer," he cajoles. "It's a party. Live a little."

"Sabbith," she corrects as he orders a bourbon. She takes a sip of her gin-and-tonic-hold-the-tonic. "Not changing that professionally."

He smiles. "Don't you want to go meet Julianna Margulies or the cast of Homeland or Kerry Washington? The gay dads from American Family are here." He sighs as he leans against the bar with them.

"Modern Family," she corrects. It's bad if she knows a reference. "And no. I want to be at home. In New York. In my bed," she says indignantly, shifting on her heels. She'd had to walk the red carpet for the first time ever this year — stand and pose and smile and shift poses and smile again, not just get a quick snap from the ACN guy — and it had given her a headache.

Charlie smiles, amused and … proud? "You look nice, Sloan. That dress … It's shiny."

"It's silk," she informs him, quelling the urge to do a twirl. She's wearing a gunmetal Giambattista Valli with a navy flower print crushed in velvet on the bodice, with a thin, neon-yellow belt around the middle. It's far livelier than anything she's used to, and far different from the solid red strapless number she'd worn last time, but Don had liked it best out of the six dresses she'd tried. Liz Banks (they had become friends when she shadowed Sloan to play Avery Jessup) thought it was sure to land her on a best-dressed list. "And yes, I look hot, thank you for noticing."

"So, what, are you just going to sit here in this corner and hide now?" Will says.

"Probably," Sloan says, lifting a shoulder and staring at everyone awkwardly half-mingling, half-dancing in place. "Drink some more. You go socialize, though. Have fun," she gestures with a smirk. The only person less social than her at a party is always Will. "Make merry."

Will shrugs. "I mean, someone needs to keep you upright."

"Gotta make sure you don't cause bodily harm to anyone who warrants Secret Service protection," Charlie adds.

"That was once!" she protests. "And it was not as ridiculous as it seemed. Don can vouch for me. I was saving Alfre Woodard." She was.

"Likely story," Charlie says. "And Don's the reason that story is still in the air vents."

"Traitor," she mutters.

Across the room, they watch Maggie — at her first Correspondent's Dinner, but looking like she is enjoying the hell out of it — bump into Jim. They jump apart, and Jim awkwardly, tenderly pats Maggie's shoulders, and appears to ask her to dance. They stand there, elbows akimbo and with enough room for the Holy Ghost, and move generally in time to Just Give Me a Reason, which Sloan supposes is an apt choice. Charlie stares at them. "Is Jim still dating —"

"Hallie? No. They broke up two months ago," Sloan says.

"So are he and Maggie …"

"No, but they've both dropped more piles of paper, tripped over feet, spilled coffee, or knocked into each other so many times in the past six weeks I'm considering getting them checked for concussions," Will says.

"Jim almost had to go to the ER last week after she slammed another door on his face. It's pretty sad," Sloan agrees, lips pursed and unimpressed. It has been like this since the breakup, the two of them doing this dance and bumbling and stuttering. She shakes her head and takes another sip of her gin-and-tonic-hold-the-tonic. The glass is now empty. She waves it around and hands it to a different bartender to refill. "Hold the tonic," she instructs seriously.

"Like either of you can talk," Charlie scoffs. He points at each of them in turn, "Pined after guy for a year and a half while he was dating another woman; subjected us all to years — actual, literal years — of insanity as you and MacKenzie figured it out."

Will waves Charlie away by muttering irrelevant, while Sloan glares at him. "There was no pining, and you, sir, do not fight fair."

"I fight with truth," Charlie proclaims.

"Not once did I or Don have to go to the hospital."

"No, but Timothy Geithner did."

"Totally unrelated!"

"Is Sloan trying to defend torching a Cabinet Secretary again?" her lovely, understanding, empathetic husband says, approaching. "You know how antisocial you all look, right?"

"We're gossiping," she informs him.

"You're drunk," he smiles. "Gin-and-tonic-hold-the-tonic again?"

"I really don't understand why it's not a more popular drink," she says, her palms upturned in a shrug.

He chuckles and slides an arm around her shoulders. "You're cute. Too drunk to take advantage of tonight, but adorable."

"Not too drunk to take advantage of you, though, pal," She nuzzles his nose.

"See, you two are just as bad," Charlie says.

"I'm not sure rape-jokes-as-foreplay is cute," Will interjects. "Feminism tells me that."

"Bad as what?" Don asks.

"It's clearly between two consenting and highly sexually active adults," Sloan says to Will. She supposes she's at the point where she should keep her voice down and drink water. "Highly," she repeats, because it's a point worth making again.

"Jim and Maggie," Charlie says, ignoring her.

"With their bumping into each other and dropping papers and their meeting and remeeting cute," she adds.

"Oh-ho-ho, no. It's physically impossible to be as bad as them," Don informs Charlie. "They are painful. Half the time in the newsroom it's like watching two live-action Kewpie dolls discover hormones for the first time, and the other half of the time it's like the junior high's unintentionally hilarious production of His Girl Friday."

"Cosigned. And he gets to say this since he used to date Maggie," Sloan says. She pauses. Is that inappropriate, or just hilarious? She settles for hilarious.

"I told her when I broke up with her to call him and work it out, and she didn't, so … yeah. I get to mock."

Will stares at him. "That was actually ridiculously spot-on. How did you nail that description so accurately?"

"Talent," he shrugs, then looks at Sloan. "You. Wife. Want to dance?"

"I want water first," she admits bluntly.

"I'll get it. I am here to serve you."

"Ugh, don't be gross," she chides as he walks off.

"What's gross about that?" Will asks.

"He's not here to serve me, or please me, or anything like that. He's here to be my husband and that includes taking care of me after five gin-and-tonics-hold-the-tonics." She's usually much better at liquor than this — Charlie and Will have taught her well — but she supposes that it's the sleep deprivation. "And I do the same for him," she decrees triumphantly.

"You know your limit is four gin-and-tonic-hold-the-tonics," Don says as he reappears with her drink and a palmful of Tylenol. God, he's a saint.

"Your inability to hold your liquor is almost embarrassing," Charlie says.

"This isn't intoxication, this is sleep deprivation," Don says. "She gets loopy; I get stupid. Not the best combination."

"We're a regular Abbott and Costello, though," Sloan adds.

"More like Lloyd and Harry," Will comments drily.

Don cocks his head. "Have you ever been told —"

"Yes."

The music switches from the Taylor Swift song about the boy from the new Backstreet Boys to a song Sloan finally recognizes, and she tugs Don's arm. "Oooooh, I know this one. Let's go."

"Is this by —" he asks as he slides an arm around her waist.

"The same guy who sang our wedding song? Yes. Good ear," she says as To Love Somebody, covered by Ray LaMontagne and … someone else, comes on.

"I pay attention to the important things," he smirks. "How are you doing? You look exhausted. Beautiful, don't get me wrong, but exhausted."

"I went home at some point over the last ten days," she points out. "Trust me, you look worse."

"Yeah, but this … it's just fucking insane. What stops it? We have a shot-up elementary school, two kids putting a bomb in a trash can at a marathon — the hell?"

"We should do a special," she says suddenly. She's loopy, but it's perfectly clear to her. They absolutely should do a special. "An ACN Reports thing. You EP, I anchor."

He stops. "Are you serious? You're launching a new show in five weeks."

"Yes," she says. "This is ridiculous. More people die of handgun violence in the United States than in any other country. We're in a position to make a difference about that, and we should."

"We could use Sandy Hook, the Boston Marathon bombing as a hook —"

"Do you think Boston is too tenuous?"

"Right now, yes, but we can fix that. It's home-grown violence; we can build a tie."

"I'd want to get into the economic ramifications — you know, the false claim that gun control hurts the economy." They're completely still in the middle of the dance floor, other couples moving around them, as ideas stream out of them.

"I think we need to really hit home the fact that, while Sandy Hook and Trayvon Martin receive all this attention, but it's something that is ridiculously common. And the prison sentences are devastating to affected families."

"We also do need to hammer home the inaction by politicians — maybe follow the money a bit there?"

"And let's weave a human-interest story throughout. Follow someone who's lost a couple people to gun violence — someone has died, but also someone who's incarcerated, maybe. Start and end with them. Loop back throughout the broadcast. You listened to that episode of This American Life, right? About the gun violence at the high school in Chicago? Get someone like those kids involved."

"I like it," she smiles, then does a double-take. "We're doing this, aren't we?" She likes the idea of working with him. She likes working with him even when it's miserable.

He kisses her lightly. "Hell yes we are. But let's make it through this damned honeymoon first."

"I like the way you think, Keefer," she smiles as they start dancing.

"You're not so bad yourself, Sabbith," he says.

"We'll call it a draw and agree we're an OK team."

They dance a couple of more dances, mingle a little more, and decide they absolutely cannot handle any more time on their feet; since it's now past midnight, Charlie decrees their duties toward ACN discharged. Don goes to wait in the coat line while she runs to the bathroom.

As she's washing her hands and reapplying her makeup — there are cameras, and she absolutely looks drunk, even though she feels pretty clear-headed — Maggie emerges from the stall, the blue Tadashi Shoji she'd borrowed from Mac twisting at her ankles. "Hey," Sloan smiles. "You have fun tonight?"

"Yeah, actually," Maggie says, with a pleasantly-surprised smile. "You know, it's been so insane this month I wasn't really looking forward to it, but it was really fun."

"You and Jim were dancing up a storm," she says with a smirk.

"Not every day you get to scuff up the carpet at the French Ambassador's, am I right?"

"You're right," Sloan pockets the lipstick. "Hey — I never said anything, but you did great in Boston. And thanks for finding my sisters, day-of." Maggie had been the one to finally get a hold of her sisters — Sloan been broadcasting since the news broke during her show, and Don was producing, so Maggie had tracked them down, then scribbled messages in large print on a legal pad to let Sloan, still on air, know they were safe.

"No problem. Don looked pretty busy and I could help, so I did. I'm glad they're OK. And … thanks," Maggie smiles, and starts to leave. Sloan feels compelled to speak. She's feeling magnanimous.

"You know, way before you arrived at ACN, I … floated, let's say floated … going on a date to Don."

"OK?" Maggie says, confused. This conversation is now in a dramatically different place.

"I'm not — we didn't, nothing happened, while you were dating," Sloan clarified. "Hell, we barely spoke, then. But the day we met, right after I started working at ACN, we grabbed a drink, and talked about the fact that I'd just quit my job after a terrible breakup with a coworker. He'd cheated on me, so I had walked out of everything — our apartment, my job, my life. And I wasn't in a great place, but I suggested to Don that we get drinks again, and I think I made it pretty clear that I meant in a date-like setting." She and Don had discussed this non-date several times, and he maintained it had not happened like she remembered it, but who was the one with the near-eidetic memory? She was. She's right.

"Sloan, I know that Don is one of the good guys, and you two are pretty awesome together, and it's fine —"

"That's not what I'm trying to say. Though I'm saying what I was trying to say pretty poorly," she takes a deep breath. "My point is, there was a brief moment, when we could have started dating in 2008. We did not, because a completely blackout-drunk Don thought it would be a bad idea. It's the one good idea a drunk Don has ever had. Because if we had, if we'd gone on that date and I used him for a rebound and he treated me as a fling — I'm pretty sure we would have broken up. Either fairly early, or fairly epically. I wasn't ready to be in another relationship and I wouldn't've been able to trust him and would have been really closed off and volatile. And he wouldn't've been able to commit, and when Don gets scared he does and says really stupid stuff, and blows off problems and purposefully fucks stuff up, which we both know. And since we wouldn't've known each other very well, I would not have known that, and he would have done stupid shit, and … you get the picture. We needed, like, three years to grow up and be friends and go through things and get ready for each other. And only then were we remotely equipped to try."

Realization skates across Maggie's face, and she blushes. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying that I think you and Jim finally, after three years and three major relationships, are at a point where you can actually figure out what you mean to each other. Without all the noise. And it's not too late, and maybe the timing is actually better than if you had been single when you two met. And I think you owe it to yourselves to try," she cocks her head to the side. "Is that what you thought I was saying?"

Maggie smiles. "Basically, yes."

"Anyways," Sloan smiles back. "Have a good rest of your night."

"Sloan," Maggie calls.

She turns. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say … you're really good for Don. I'm happy you two ended up together and are, like, good … together."

She smiles back. It's a little insane because she knows, objectively, that she-and-Don are much more evenly matched (and better suited) than Don-and-Maggie ever were. The challenges that the other presents are almost a turn-on — she likes that he is so aggressive and sarcastic, finds it funny and fun instead of aggravating; he thinks her wonkiness is sexy and her confusion charming, doesn't have a problem explaining things or listening to her discuss economics. There are boring days and stressful days and uncertain days and days when they pick fights with each other and days when they just fundamentally disagree, but they're doing it. She's still only beginning to grasp how long "as long as we both shall live" is, how many things will change between now and then, but she's happy Don's the person she is changing with. Different as they are, they overlap in the most important ways. But the benediction makes her feel almost … affirmed.

So she just nods. "Thanks," she finally says. "He's pretty good to me too."

"How … how do go about … starting things?" Maggie bites her lip in that little-girl way that Sloan has always found exasperating, but Jim (and Don and Mac and Will) have always found appealingly vulnerable.

She smiles. "Well, Don and I got into a pretty huge argument at Hang Chew's in which we said some awful things to each other and he made me cry. I don't recommend that."

"He made you cry?" Maggie looks horrified.

"Not cry-cry just ... upset. But hey, it worked for us," she shrugs. "You kind of have to figure it out yourself. Maybe start with coffee?"

"Coffee," Maggie repeats. "Alright then. Thanks."

She finds Don at the coat check, her silver capelet in hand. "Ready to go get some sleep?"

"Yeah," she says. As they're leaving, she says, "So remember how I told you not to interfere in Jim's life about the breakup?"

"Yeah?"

"May have told Maggie to ask him out." He starts laughing, head kicked back — a full-bellied roar.

The idea of a special marinates over their honeymoon, which is mostly sex and food and swimsuits and staying at a private pool. They come back and decide to pitch it to Charlie, dragging him out for street hot dogs and a conversation on a park bench. After Charlie explains to them that the city's gone to hell due to Uber and food trucks, he says, somewhat abruptly, "So why'd you two bring me out here? Fess up. I'm old, Keefers."

"Still Sabbith," Sloan says, making a face at a bite of hot dog. "But. We had an idea, after Boston." She grimaces again, and tosses the offensive street fare.

"We're pissed about the stalled gun-control debate," Don takes over. "It's a violent epidemic that's destroying communities economically and socially. It's misrepresented and co-opted at basically every turn. Then we realized we could do something about that."

Charlie smiles that gruff smirk that's equal parts proud and 'get off my lawn.' "What are you thinking?"

"One-hour special. June. Taking a look at the cost on a human and community level. We'll start with one death, one gun, and trace it through the economic and social ramifications, what this means on a big scale, and what politicians, community leaders, and citizens can do about it," Sloan says.

"Big, brief hook to the violence from the national perspective— Sandy Hook, the president crying, the Boston manhunt — then bring it back to the very normal. One person, one family, one community, destroyed by a gun death. We'll use that to anchor each block, but we'll look at their life story in A, the community in B, the economics in C, the social-injustice lens in D, the politics in E, and wrap up with what's next in F," Don sums up.

"You think you two can get that done, and launch your show, and do your job in four weeks?" he emphasizes each of their tasks with a firm head-tilt.

Sloan shrugs. It's tough, but they have a reason. "The Senate is voting on gun control by the Fourth of July. We want it in then, on a Sunday night."

"It's also a great brand-builder, not for nothing," Don adds. "It'll help with her launch. That's not why we're doing it though."

Charlie smiles. "Get a team together. I want a narrative outline by next week, and then I'll make the call."

Jim is unimpressed with their idea. "You know we're launching a show in two weeks, right?" He asks. "That's plenty to do there. You need to focus there. Only an idiot would take this on right now."

"That's false. Mac would totally do this."

"Not helping your case. Do you want a Peabody? We have time for the Peabody. After we launch."

"I'm doing this because somebody needs to," she says. "There is an epidemic. We have a platform. We need to use it. And not for nothing, but this helps us build out the show."

"I'm not going to convince you it's a bad idea, am I?"

"You really can't. But," she says, "you can do something else. We need segment producers."

"No —"

"Come on, it's going to be very compelling, it'll garner high ratings, we're going to take a hard look at a critical issue in this country. This is exactly the type of shit you love."

"Sloan —"

"You can't say no. You actually know that you can't say no. The only downside is that it'll be extra work, and you can't turn something down because it's extra work."

"I'm about to EP my first show, my first major show, and you want me to put together a segment for a special?"

"This is important," she says. "To the show, and to the conversation."

"God Will trained you good," he says. "Fine. But I call whatever you guys are putting together on social justice."

She grins. "Good man."

Within three days, she can admit that Jim's points have some merit (some, not a lot), just based on how exponentially her workload increases. Charlie greenlights the outline, and they take over a solid third of Don's office with notecards, potential interviews, and angles to pursue. She conscripts the good people that remain on Mac's team, half of her own team (which now includes Kendra and Tess, whom she'd poached along with Jim), and most of Don's team. Neal agrees to manage the online-only features, including longer interviews, videos, and a solid shit-ton of interactive infographics. They find the sort of TV-ready family that will illustrate the story perfectly: A former-cop single mother in Camden whose disability doesn't keep the family out of poverty; an honors-student son gunned down three years ago; a prodigal son currently in Otisville for possession; a sixteen-year-old daughter who just wants to escape. They wake up extra-early to take the train down to talk with them for a few hours before the show frequently; on those days, after her four o'clock every day, Don is there with a quadruple-shot skinny vanilla latte, no foam. She's constantly exhausted.

And it's a little strange, doing this together (It's such a joint effort they begin referring to the report as their firstborn). While they've worked together in the past and performed such feats of teamwork as planning a wedding in three days, Charlie is right; it was different. He's never, ever had an opinion on her clothes before, but as they're prepping for her to interview an English teacher from the who's had three students die of gun violence, he dismisses four successive tops as, "too structured," "too unfriendly," "too slutty," and "too boring."

"You know, would it kill you to put this much thought into my wardrobe when we go out?" she complains as she tosses on another dress.

"Yes, and this one is too high-powered. You look like Hillary Clinton's lawyer," he says.

"Given that my mother is one of Hillary's lawyers, that is kind of offensive. She's in her sixties. I am hotter than that."

"You are hotter than that, and that's why you can't wear that dress. Here," he says, digging through the closet. "Wear this. Gold jewelry, soft makeup, don't overdo it."

She puts on the dress — a navy silk sheath by DVF, tight and with a deep neckline but conservatively patterned — and has to admit he's right.

It's only one of their constant, low-boil arguments, brought on by stress and proximity and their shared investment in the project. They hash and rehash the order of interviews and arc and argumentation and tone and beat and music and pronouns. The debates happen everywhere: late at night in his office, at home when they should be sleeping, on jogs with Clem in the morning on weekends (he hates running, but it's one of the few times they can talk, so she's wearing him down). Don constantly rewrites her questions list because he thinks she's not being tough enough, and she plays intermediary between the staff when Don gets too intense and makes them redo the editing job seven times. Besides Camden they travel to Aurora and Columbine, to Sandy Hook and Blacksburg, to state capitols and the nation's capitol, sleep in shitty hotels, and split Chick-Fil-A in rental cars.

They're so busy, in fact — arguing about what to ask a group of teachers who started an anti-violence advocacy association — that she forgets to be nervous about her show's debut until the night before, when she's suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea.

"Are you alright?" Don asks after watching her fling the contents of her inner into the toilet.

"Yeah," she says, grabbing a washcloth. "I guess I'm just nervous about the show," she admits. They've promo-ed the hell out of the show, they have interview segments pre-taped for the B, C, and F blocks, and she and Jim have gone fifty rounds over email about what stories they're going to cover and what their spin on it is going to be, but it's still tomorrow and she now feels hopelessly unprepared.

"It's been a little crazy," he agrees. "Look. We can push the special. We've both been working too hard lately, and we don't need to do it this quickly."

"No, I want to do it," she insists, pushing her hair back. What she means is, I want to do it with you. "I just …"

"Yeah?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"We'll push it back. There's a lot to do, and you're under a lot of stress about the launch, and it's more important the launch goes well. If that's messed up, it puts this project's success in jeapardy.

"Thanks," she says, sarcastically. "I absolutely didn't just puke from pressure."

"I'm serious. There's just so much to do, and so much to argue about."

"We're not arguing."

"We're arguing all the time. We're arguing about whether or not we're arguing right now."

"I would consider this witty banter, which, let's be honest, is one of our strongest suits," she sighs. She rests her head on her hand. She's exhausted, and they need to figure out how many minutes to devote to a panel reflecting on mandatory minimums, and now she's freaked out, too. "We're disagreeing, which is fine. We do it about the apartment, and the dog, and the wedding, and whose family to see over Christmas, and whether to get Indian or Thai for dinner. This special means we have to talk all the time, and trust each other, and rely on the other's strengths. We do that all the time. Just never in a professional setting. We're not fighting; we're being … professionally married."

He smirks as he sits next to her. "Professionally married. I like that. Do we need vows?"

"I think the wedding vows cover any and all professional marriages."

He chuckles, then smiles at her. "You know, have I ever told you about the first time I watched your show?"

She scrunches her brows at the change of topic. "No?"

"It was a couple days after we met, the day after you got me drunk."

"You got yourself drunk. It was tequila, Don. Not roofies, not ecstasy. Tequila."

"Anyways, I was working through a hangover and one of Will's particularly awesome moods. I saw the show was on, so I turned up the volume to watch. You said you thought you came across as nervous so I was watching to see if I could offer you feedback."

"I believe you told me to cut my hair and to practice smiling in a mirror so I would look 'less like Bambi about to get killed.' You had plenty of feedback."

"Right. Those things were totally true. But I was going to watch for about three minutes, and ended up sticking around for 30. You … you were good, Sloan."

"You gave me notes!"

"You had stuff to improve on, sure, but you were good and it showed. And that was almost five years ago. You're going to be great, because you are prepared and ready, but also because you work damn hard and you won't settle for anything less. And you'll be great on the special, too."

"Thanks," she smiles, standing because they have work to do. "Let's try and get them for six minutes."

"The mandatory-minimums panel?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to need you to ask the gun guy harder questions."

"I think we need to pull back," she disagrees. "We're going too hard, that's going to sound one-note — guns are bad and we need to stop them."

"There's not a whole lot of other notes involved," Don says drily.

"We can hit hard on this, but we need to make it credible," she points out. "we want nuance. If people feel attacked they're not going to listen. I'll work on the list; you finish editing the latest session with Kiara?" They'd spent Tuesday morning shadowing her at her high school and had four hours of footage to condense into B-roll.

"Sounds good," he says. "I'll order Thai."

She scrunches her nose. "Indian?" He sighs, then holds out his fist. Rock beats Scissors. "Fine. Thai," she smiles.

The launch of Starting Line goes well the next day — though he didn't say he would do it, she can feel Don in the control room next to Jim, which makes her smile. The ratings are solid, if not spectacular (higher than the last show, and a bunch stick around for Will), the reviews are good, and she adds 30,000 Twitter followers overnight. And two weeks later, as she takes the desk on an unfamiliar Sunday and he asks, "You good to go out there?" she smiles again.

"Yup," she says, rearranging her papers.

"Because we could postpone. Run a repeat of the election night coverage. People liked that the first time around."

"Or we could just do this," she points out, smiling into the camera.

"Or we could," he agrees. "You look stunning. You'll be great."

"We'll be great," she corrects softly, hoping he took her offline.

"We will," he says. "Counting down. Ten to go —"

When the camera flips to go, she's suddenly speaking to two million people, sharing what she and Don have built together with the world. She smiles, freezing for a split second. Then Don whispers, "We've got this, Sloan," and she's ready to go.


	25. If someone asks, this is where I'll be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks so much for your continued support. Another chapter here! I'm basically done — just some edits — so will hopefully be wrapping up by Wednesday. This one and the next one are a little longer, because I guess I can't let them go :) 
> 
> There will be some editing at that point, but we're in the home stretch!

Home, is where I want to be

But I guess I'm already there

\- Talking Heads

November

"Uncle Don! Aunt Sloan!"

"Hey, Maddie," he says as his niece jumps into his arms and practically knocks him over. Behind her, his brother, sister-in-law, mom, and nephews trickle out of the house. "Oof. You know, you're in what, fourth grade now?"

"Yep!"

"That's way too big to be jumping into Uncle Don's arms."

Maddie grins, baring shiny, new braces. What the hell? She's growing up too fast. Is their kid gonna do that? "You gotta get used to it!" She dives to hug Sloan tightly. "Can I feel the baby kicking?"

"Hi, Maddie. Yes, but he usually likes to move more when I'm sitting still, so you probably can't feel anything right now."

"Maybe later?"

"Absolutely," Sloan promises as she lets Clem out of the backseat. The dog makes a break for the tree line to relieve herself. "Hey, Mitch, Melanie. Alison," she says as the other members of the family catch up.

"Hi Sloan," his mother smiles and goes in for a hug. "How are you feeling? Was the drive down very bad? You look gorgeous, I love that blazer." She really does — she's wearing a houndstooth hunting blazer that looks like something out of Sherlock Holmes, with burnt orange fabric lining the undersides of the collar and lapels, a white silk tunic, and slim, dark-washed jeans. His wife is super-hot, super-stylish pregnant.

"Thank you, J. Crew, actually. It wasn't terrible, no — my back sort of hurts from sitting on the Turnpike for so long, but otherwise fine," she smiles at Melanie. "How did you do this three times, exactly?"

"Just wait till labor," Melanie advises with a smile as she and Mitch both go to hug Sloan. Alright then — he's got the nephews. They like him better. But nope — they head for Sloan too, and give her a hug. He notices that Mason, almost eleven and in fifth grade, is nearly as tall as Sloan now.

"What am I, chopped liver?" he finally complains as they all fawn over Sloan.

"Fifteen years I tell you to give me grandchildren and you don't listen; a year after I meet Sloan, she's pregnant with my grandson. Of course I like her more," his mother chides smoothly. "Mason, Matt, help Uncle Don with the bags."

"I was there too," he protests as the boys grab the stuff.

"You should really stop talking now," Sloan smirks as Melanie and Alison guide her into the large house. "Can you grab the pies too?" She whistles for Clem, who trots after her.

Sloan's never actually been to Mitch's, despite the fact that they've been married for over a year. When he finally enters Maddie is showing Sloan all her various photos and medals —"I got this for tying for sixth in the spelling bee," "This is my honorable mention from my golf league last summer," "Here is my field hockey team photo, right after we beat Agnes Irwin," — when he and the boys enter with enough crap to keep them clothed for two weeks (they're leaving on Sunday). Michael is sitting on the couch in the family room, watching the parade, and Matt jumps on the couch next to Michael once he's dropped the bags. Melanie and his mom are clucking in the kitchen, and Mason immediately escapes to wherever the preteen goes to avoid his family. Don feels officially useless. Happy Thanksgiving.

The holiday, which had been boring and superficially perfect as a child — he, his brother, and their parents always spent it at one of his two aunts' house eating a lot of turkey and then passing out as his uncles watched football — became a seriously complicated, frequently protracted negotiation in his twenties after he found out he had two much-younger siblings, Adam and Lily, from his father's years-long affair; Mitch married Mel, bringing her parents and brother into the equation; and his mom married Michael, who brought four kids by two ex-wives to the table. The year he was twenty-nine — no, thirty-one — they had tried to do everyone at once, thirty-nine relatives jigsawed together by marriages and remarriages: Mitch and Mel and their kids and Mel's parents; Lily and Adam and their mom and stepdad and their stepdad's single sister; his stepsister Lena and her boyfriend and kid; his three stepbrothers and a husband, a wife, and two kids between them; Michael's first ex-wife and her new husband; his two aunts and their husbands and five kids and four spouses and four grandkids. It had been a disaster — his mom and Gina had argued over the proper way to make stuffing, one of his uncles had asked Daniel the logistics of gay sex, and somehow Lena's kid broke a wrist. He'd never been so happy to be single.

Since then, they'd split the groups, with Mitch and Mel doing most holidays with her family, and his mother and Michael spending at least Hanukkah with his kids and Christmas with her sisters. His "chronic bachelordom" (his mother's words, not his) and the fact that he frequently had to work at least one if not all the major holidays in the Thanksgiving-New Year's corridor gave him license to slip through the cracks, which he had always taken advantage of. He enjoyed it — family, he'd long believed, was best enjoyed in finite doses and with a clear exit strategy. But now he's three months away from having his own kid and his own family, and Sloan's parents are ridiculously present and engaged, despite living all the way across the country, and it makes his own lapses, with his own family, that much starker. He understands the value of trying instead of tolerating now, in a way he wouldn't've even a year ago.

Thus, he is here. He's not quite tense, it's not unpleasant, but it is … new. He's on his best behavior.

"These pies look delicious — did either of you bake?" his mom asks skeptically. "Because while that would have been a lovely thought, I'm not sure I would trust the execution."

"God no. See the bakery label on it?" He opens the fridge and decides that, since Thanksgiving is special, it's not too early for a cider.

"Don did go all the way to Brooklyn to pick them up yesterday, so there was a considerable amount of effort put into them," Sloan calls from the living room, where Madison is showing her the choreography to … a tap dance, maybe? There's a lot of flailing of the arms.

"All that time and energy, we would've been perfectly happy with something from the grocery store down the street," she clucks.

"Wait till you taste it, Mom," he reassures her. Nothing makes this woman happy, he swears. "There's no way whatever the hell Gristedes had can top the pecan rum or the apple cranberry from Four and Twenty Blackbirds."

"So, Don, you going to show Sloan around Lower Merion while you're down here?" his mother asks as Sloan approaches, having finally seen every artifact of Madison's childhood thus far. Or Maddie just got bored with her. One or the other.

"I … wasn't planning on it," he turns toward her. "Do you want the Don Keefer Memorial Tour? Or can we, you know, do fun things?"

"Actually, the memorial tour sounds fun. See the high-school football field where you seduced all the women —"

"Those would be the tennis courts, and there was one," Mitch pops in. "And he was damn lucky to get that action."

"Excellent. The tennis courts, and the movie theaters where you got to second base, and the coffeeshop, where you hung out after school. Or was that not a thing, way back in Generation X?" she teases.

"You are a Milliennial by three days!" he exclaims. She'd been harping on that point since a segment she'd done earlier in the month. He thinks of a couple places she might like to see, though he's mostly coming up empty. "We could drive around on Saturday before we head back to New York," he suggests."If you really want." He really does not want — he doesn't even know if he remembers where all that stuff is — but he'll leave it up to her.

"I really do. Can you show me where Tina Fey was born?"

"Next town over," he says. "Fifteen minutes that way," he points toward Upper Darby. He'd actually met her a couple times (kids' theatre, when he was in elementary school and she was in high school) but teasing Sloan was fun.

"Don, I actually told Gina that Saturday would work for lunch with Adam and Lily. They can't do tomorrow; Lily and her friends are shopping."

"Oh, sure," he says. "That work?" he asks Sloan. Even before the disastrous Thanksgiving four or six years ago, he and Mitch had always tried to take Adam and Lily out at some point over the holiday weekend to celebrate. They weren't family in the traditional, have-holidays-together sense, but there was something to be said for a blood connection. When they had been in elementary school, it had been so simple: the four of them splitting a bag of hamburgers before catching whatever animated movie was opening that weekend. Then it became day trips to museums and plays in Philadelphia. But it was becoming increasingly harder to fit into their schedules as they got older and Mitch and now him added to their families: Last year, for instance, Adam (who had been a college sophomore), had been studying in Morocco, so his mom and Lily had gone to see him there. The year before that Madison had been at a gymnastics meet in upstate New York. Now, Lily has a full social calendar.

"Of course," Sloan says, popping a grape into her mouth. "I haven't seen either of them since the summer. It'll be fun." Adam had spent the summer interning at a "boutique consulting firm" (whatever the fuck that meant) in the city, and he and Sloan had gotten close. And Lily had taken summer classes at NYU, where she was applying early-decision, and so they'd let her do her laundry at their place and they'd taken them both out to dinner a couple of times. It was the most he'd seen either of them in years.

"So, Sloan, have you two decided on a name?" His mother asks, changing the subject. While she likes Adam and Lily just fine, and would never tell him or Mitch not to see them, it's (pretty understandably) not her favorite topic.

"Not yet," she shrugs. "He has to have one when we leave the hospital, so I'm sure we'll come up with something."

"And what are you going to do once the baby comes? You're taking some time off, I hope," his mother asks.

"I mean, I'm going to take maternity leave," Sloan says. "Probably February, March, and April. And I'm not teaching next semester. I feel bad about that, actually; I only taught one class this semester."

"Nanny, then?" Mel asks. It's conversational, nonjudgmental; nevertheless it sets Don a bit on edge. He doesn't want Sloan stressing out.

"There's an AWM daycare, but you have to get on the waiting list two years in advance, and two years ago we weren't dating, so joke's on us," Don says.

"Next time around. If I make it out of this," Sloan says lightly. "But yeah. We'll have a nanny."

"How is that going to work, with your hours? You two are at work sixteen hours a day," his mom says.

"I mean, I don't really have to go in till noon or so, and Sloan gets off at eight. There are worse hours for a nanny in New York."

"You guys really want to keep those hours after the kid's born?" Mitch asks. "Because no offense, Don, they suck already."

"We have contracts," he shrugs. His had just been re-signed in June, with a promotion and an extra title. No way he's quitting.

"Because contracts have never been broken," his mother points out.

"Look, Mom, we like this," he shrugs. "Will me getting off at 11:30 work for forever? No, but when the bean's not even in preschool, it'll probably work pretty well."

"It's important for you two to make time for each other, too, that's all I'm saying," she shrugs.

"Luckily, we work together," he says.

"Sloan, don't let him get away with thinking seeing each other is the same as spending time together," Mel says.

"If either of us felt ignored we'd talk about it," she smiles. "It feels, some days, like things are happening super fast. But we do still have time, and we have a plan for the first couple months. I think that's as far out as is safe."

"You guys are handling having a kid this quickly awfully well," Melanie says. "I remember when we got married all we wanted was to go on adventures for the next five years." Don tries not to snort; they were pregnant within two years.

Sloan shrugs. "This is plenty enough adventure for us," she says, tracing shapes on her stomach absentmindedly.

It's a lazy day; Melanie and his mom handle the cooking while the rest of them sit on the couch and watch football (well, everybody but Sloan watches football. She reads The Economist as she somehow manages to steamroll his fantasy team). Around two the kids head up to change, and he and Sloan get their first and only responsibility of the evening — setting the table. Madison walks behind him, dropping five dried corn kernels next to each plate.

"What are these?" he asks, sifting two between his fingers.

"The Pilgrims had them," she informs him. "We just learned about them in school this year. At the first Thanksgiving, the Wampanoag brought game and vegetables, but the Pilgrims still set out corn to remind them about when they only had five kernels of corn a day. You say one thing you're thankful for for every kernel."

He holds one up and teases Madison: "Well, this one is for Game of Thrones and this one is for coffee and this one is for —"

"No, Uncle Don! Real things. Like Aunt Sloan and the baby and your nice apartment and you get to live in New York far away from Mason. Yours is the easiest, honestly. You have a lot to be thankful for."

He looks at Sloan, rearranging the silverware across the way. "You might be right, Madison." Sloan hears him, and sticks her tongue out playfully.

They sit down for dinner not long after. The kids share first (Matthew is thankful for Iron Man, which is somehow acceptable; Mason drags his feet before finally saying he is thankful for Kendall Jenner, which is somehow not), then Mel and Mitch, then Michael, and finally his mom. Then it's Sloan's turn. "Well," she says. "First, um, I'm thankful to be here with all of you, and that you've accepted me so easily into. I'm also thankful that this pregnancy, so far, has been pretty easy. Minus the morning sickness, which was terrible," she slides two pieces across her plate to count them off. "I'm thankful for the bean, and I'm excited to meet him next year. I'm thankful for Don — it's been … just, thank you. And I'm thankful for my own parents and sisters, even if I don't get to see them all the time."

"Lovely," his mother smiles. "Don?"

He shifts uneasily, then starts gamely. "Well, I'm thankful for this great meal — thanks, Mom and Mel, for making sure we don't starve today. Or within the next week. And I'm thankful to be here with you. And, um, obviously, Sloan, I'm thankful for you and the bean. I'm thankful for my job. And … Honestly, there's a lot that I could say for my fifth. And that hasn't always been true. So, I'm thankful for that — how much extra I have right now, in my life." He smiles at Sloan, who smiles shyly back before taking his hand and squeezing it.

It's a good dinner, filled with too much food, and the pies are universally praised (He eats two and a half pieces of the pecan rum). Afterwards, he and Mitch are conscripted into dish duty, since Mel cooked and Sloan is pregnant, which everyone understands to be a free pass at chores. His mother being his mother, she supervises them; when Mitch goes to argue with Mason about whether or not he can ditch the family and go hang out at the basketball courts (seriously, the thought of raising a teenager is terrifying), Alison leans over his shoulder to observe his dish-washing technique. "This looks good on you, Don," she says, out of the blue.

"The dishtowel?" he asks, flipping it over his shoulder.

"No, you. Doing this. Being … domestic."

"I remember you telling me when I was ten I could either wash my own dishes or eat off the floor, so …"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, please, be obtuse and wreck our moment. You know what I meant."

"Not, really, no," he trills, setting the final pot in the rack and wiping his hands. "I'm very dense. Just ask Sloan."

"These past few years, you've been happier than I've seen you since you were fifteen and decided the only place for the weight of the world was firmly on your shoulders," she says. "This, being settled, being married, getting ready to be a new dad. It works."

He shrugs. "It better. Kid's coming no matter what." People keep saying this, like it's a goddamn fact, like the theory of evolution or the heliocentric theory, and he's absolutely not convinced. He's kept Sloan calm, and they'll get the hang of it eventually, but everyone's absolute faith in their ability gobsmacks him.

"Don …" she says.

"Yeah?"

She just kisses his cheek. "You guys are going to be great at this. I'm proud of you both."

"Alison, Don?" Sloan swings her head into the kitchen. "Mitch wants to put on It's A Wonderful Life? I haven't seen it, but he says it's a holiday classic and you two have to join."

Don groans, because of course she has not seen the damned film. "OK, we're going through the AFI's classic-film database and filling in these egregious gaps in your cultural knowledge," he says. She just smirks and heads out.

The next day, she prods him up nice and early, ready to explore his hometown. "Why are you so excited about this?" he grumbles as he showers and she brushes her teeth.

"I've never been here," she shrugs. "And you don't talk about it much," she works the words around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"We've never been to Japan," he points out, since she spent five solid years living in Tokyo.

"No, but I'd like to take you there. And we've been to San Francisco. You spent eighteen years living here, and I spent two living in San Francisco, and we've been to San Francisco."

"Well, we'll see it today." He's got some places that he wants her to see. He's got a list.

"I want the full Don Keefer origin story. The high school. The tennis courts. The library."

"The field in which a kindly farmer and his wife found me and raised me as their own?"

"Or the lab where you got bitten by a spider," she retorts. "I'm serious. I don't think I even know the name of your favorite teacher."

He isn't sure he knows hers (unless 'her father' is the answer, which it very well might be), but he answers, "Mrs. Kennington. She taught English literature and coached debate."

They skip breakfast at home, and he takes her to the Lee's Hoagie House for breakfast sandwiches Fluffya-style. They stop at the Wawa to get hot apple cider and hot chocolate, ordered from the computer terminals, and then head over to the high school, which was rebuilt in 2010 and is all modern architecture and vast parking lots. The doors are locked because it's a holiday, so they walk the track around the field behind the school, which is still the same as when Don went there. It's strewn with leaves, and he talks about his one mediocre season running track.

"Where did all the kids go to make out?" Sloan asks, craning her neck behind her as they sit on the bleachers.

He laughs. "It wasn't a doo-wop movie," he says. "Nobody came out to the football field to make out."

"Where'd you go, then?" she challenges.

"The natatorium," he confesses — there had been an empty storage room there that was great for sneaking around. "This wasn't the one we used, though. They built a new one when they built the new school."

"So I don't get to see where you seduced the famous Katie?" she pouts. He's mentioned his high-school girlfriend to Sloan a couple of times and she's always been just slightly irrationally suspicious of her.

"No," he laughs. "But as far as I know her brother still lives around here if you want to meet him." He leans forward and kisses her. She tastes spicy, like cider. "Come on. Let's head to the park."

He drives them the five minutes to the park, where the tennis courts and baseball fields are. The three-sided tennis shelter has his teams' two state champion and three district champion plaques, and he shows her those before they play a game of imaginary tennis on the courts. They wander over to the baseball fields next. "Did you play? You've never mentioned it." Sloan says.

"Yeah," he says, kicking at the dirt. "I was six when the Phillies lost to the Orioles in 1983 in the Series. Everybody played. Teeball through eighth grade."

"Why'd you stop? You've never even watched a baseball game." He supposes this is strange enough that Sloan would notice; he, like Will, has an affinity for basically any sport.

"Interfered with tennis," he says. It's only a half-lie. He feels guilty, so he adds, "My dad used to bring us here. Mitch loved it. We'd run the bases out of season."

"Mitch played at Villanova, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he was always better at it than I was," he says. He kicks at the fence. "You want to see the restaurant I worked at in high school? Only job I was ever fired from."

She grins widely. "Absolutely. And I have to hear why you were fired."

After lunch at Morello's, they go to the theatre where he'd performed and the mall and library before heading into Philadelphia to check out the Barnes Foundation's new space and see the Magic Gardens and do some shopping. Sloan insists on picking up a couple Philadelphia-themed onesies for the bean. That evening is packing, answering emails (because of course), and chipping away at the mountain of leftovers in Melanie's kitchen. He's not going to lie, it's a pretty good day.

The next day, they head downtown, because Lily is insistent that they have to check out Han Dynasty — they'd taken them both to the New York outpost over the summer and Lily swore the original location was better.

"Guys!" Lily shouts, moving toward them as they approach the restaurant. "Oh my god! How have you been?" She is startlingly adult and vivaciously green-eyed, and she's dyed the tips of her dark hair pink. She's got an Army surplus-style jacket over a Little House-style flowered dress, black tights, and lace-up boots. Adam, the much more sedate sibling, is in a North Face and jeans. "I'm so excited to see everyone. Well. Not you, Mitch. I saw you, like —"

"Friday, when I paid you forty bucks to watch my kids? Yeah. Good to see you too, Lil," Mitch snarks before giving her a hug.

"That's how much Lily makes? I could watch Matthew for that!" Madison says. "Mason just stays in his room the whole time."

"I do not," Mason says. They're the first uncoaxed words Don has heard all weekend.

"How's it going, Adam?" Don asks as he hugs Sloan.

"Pretty good," Adam says. "Just waiting to hear back from McKinsey to see if I got into their summer analyst program. Studying for the GMAT too."

"You should wait to take those until you hear back from McKinsey," Sloan advises. "You don't want to go to b-school until you have to."

They grab seats and order, Sloan and Adam still chatting about jobs in finance and consulting and Lily and Madison and Matthew going on about some movie they saw last week.

"Are you excited about the baby, Don?" Lily asks as they tuck into noodle bowls.

"I mean, yeah. It's a lot, to get ready for, but we're excited."

"Still no name?" Mel checks.

"Still no name," Sloan confirms.

"But are you excited to be a dad?" Lily clarifies.

""Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. I mean … A little terrified, but excited."

Lily grins. "I remember when we were in, like, elementary school, and you would take us to the museums and to the zoo and to plays. Before Tomas. It was great."

"We did have fun, didn't we?" Don laughs. God, he had had no idea what he was doing. He'd just tried to fumble his way through without fucking them up.

"Do you … Would my dad have done those things?" Lily says nervously.

Conversation suddenly stops. The topic of their mutual father is rarely brought up; the kids know enough details and it's in the past.

"Dude, Lily, he did that," Adam says. "You were too little to remember, but he used to take us to movies and stuff."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember," Lily says. "He died when I was six, you know. I don't remember him at all."

Don looks over Lily to Sloan, who bites her lip. He shifts his glance to Mitch, who shrugs. "He … He was pretty physical. You always could feel him in a room, you know? He was always busy, always working, yelling on the phone or whatever. But he was always the center of attention. His employees loved him; he was always making a deal at some country club or whatever. And he was always moving, always busy. He slept maybe five hours a night, was competitive, but was also running all the time, playing golf, playing baseball, playing basketball. He was the star quarterback at his high school, did you know that?"

"No," Lily says. "I knew he played basketball though."

"Minus his smoking, he was pretty active," Don says. "So yeah, he would've done those things with you. Probably not museums, but everything else, yeah. He would have done those things for you."

Lily twirls her fork. "He wasn't around much for you guys either, was he?"

"Nah, he was … working," Don says. That's what he was always told, though he knows that's not true at all. Adam and Lily are living, breathing proof of that. "Look, guys … Parents are humans too, you know. He wasn't perfect. But would he have taken you to the zoo, and loved every minute? Yeah." He doesn't know what else he could tell her. It was doubtful he would've posted their photos in his office, or gone to Lily's volleyball meet, or taught Adam how to drive. If he had lived, he would have disappointed them in so many ways big and small that Don doubts they would have been able to have a healthy relationship. He disappointed Don in all those ways, and he was his legitimate kid. But he's not going to say that. "He left you guys funds for college. He cared."

Lily gives him a strange look. "I know, Don. I just didn't know what he was like, you know, as a person."

Mitch laughs. "Remember that fistfight he got into at the Phillies game once? Started it by pouring a full cup of beer on a jerkoff Yankees fan's head after he called you a fu — a name. A bad, bad name. Dad got so pissed at him. Convinced the cop to arrest the other guy too."

Don laughs. "That's the kind of guy he was." It's true. It showcased his best and worst qualities.

They head to the Mummer Museum to show Sloan all the weird exhibits, and then it's time for them to head back to the city. He doesn't want to drive late at night. Lily will be in New York in two weeks for an overnight class trip, and they agree to sign her out of the hotel and let her stay with them.

"That was nice," Sloan murmurs, eyes closed, as they drive away from his mother's, Clem safely in the backseat. "Thanks for the tour yesterday."

"It was fun," he agrees, taking her hand.

"And always good to see Lily and Adam," she says. They pass the exit for King of Prussia, and she says, "Hey, your dad built that, didn't he?"

"Developed the expansion," he corrects, then makes an impulse decision. He swats the turn signal and exits onto a winding road.

"Where are we going?" Sloan asks, alarmed, sitting up straighter.

"You'll see," he says. Ten minutes later, he rolls to a stop on a gravel shoulder on a quiet road. Sloan looks around and immediately gets it. She falls silent, looking at him.

He opens his door and jerks his head with a slight smile. "Come on," he says. "This way." He opens the door to let Clem out too.

As they exit the car, she reaches out his hand, which he takes. He hasn't been here since the funeral a dozen years ago, but he still has the route memorized. They enter the cemetery under a wrought-iron gate, hook a left, wander down a path and then an ancient set of steps, then across a meadow with a small pond to a more recent clutch of graves. They stop in front of the gray stone Don and his brother picked out. It looks significantly more weathered. Donald David Keefer, 1951-2002. Where your treasure lies, there your heart lies also. Sloan's quiet.

"He went by Dave," Don starts. He's never told her much about him — not out of distrust and not because he was emotionally closed-off, but because it was so far removed from their lives that he didn't bring it up. There was nothing he could do or say, so why bother? He was a pragmatist. But memories came pouring out. "He hated the name Donald. So he decided to give it to me, obviously. His mom went to Ravenhill — the snooty girls' Catholic school — and was friends with Grace Kelly's sister. Both of his parents' families lost a lot of money in the Great Depression, though, and by the time he came around they were pretty cash-poor, so he went to public school, which my grandmother hated. He went to Penn State, and met my mom when she was still at Bryn Mawr. His dad died in a car accident when I was about five — drunk driver — and his mom passed away from cancer when I was working at Newsweek. He had one sister, my Aunt Maribeth, but they had some big falling out over the Vietnam War and Nixon, so we didn't actually meet her until his funeral. She lives in Texas in a refurbished Airstream with a lot of wind chimes and corgis, last I heard. Never had kids." He takes a deep breath. Sloan looks at him, concerned and expectant. She gives him the quiet he needs to organize his thoughts. "He was allergic to strawberries and grass. He always wore these hideous pastel polo shirts, and liked to clamp a cigar between his teeth even when he wasn't smoking. He had this big gold chain watch, and a serious mustache in the 1980s. He loved baseball. That was kind of our thing, the … Keefer men's thing. He was always busy, always making a deal, building up Keefer & Sons, you know, for us, so we really didn't see him a lot. My mom always left a plate of dinner in the microwave for him, you know? But he always took us out of school on Opening Day, even during the mid-80s when the Phillies sucked. And always a couple of other times in the spring. He would just show up, and fake some sort of family emergency, a sick aunt or a dying puppy or whatever. He'd spin these stories that absolutely nobody would believe, and we'd go down to watch a game. He'd usually do it on doubleheader days, so we'd come home at like ten p.m., drunk on cotton candy."

"That sounds pretty great," Sloan says.

"Yeah," he says. "I loved it. He was tough to talk to sometimes, and always busy, and always telling us it was for us that he worked so hard, right? We didn't get a lot of time together. So when I got older, I followed his lead one day in eighth grade. My friends and I cut out after fourth period, took three buses to get to the Vet, watched the Phillies play the Mets. Mets won, of course. The Phillies sucked that year. And when we were leaving —" he stops, then continues, "when we were leaving, I saw my dad. His arm was around a woman. Didn't figure out until years later it was Gina. Hell, she might've even been pregnant with Adam at the time. It would make sense. I didn't say anything, not to him, or Mom, or Mitch. I just …"

"Stopped loving baseball?" Sloan surmises.

"Yeah," he finishes. "I quit the team the next year. Focused on tennis instead. Made my mom happy. By that time, the … facade my parents had been putting on for years had started slipping, since we were older, and they started spending time apart. And … that was that. That was my shitty relationship with my father."

She's quiet. "That part actually doesn't sound so shitty, you know."

"What?"

"The sneaking out, the going to baseball, the sharing something you love. That doesn't sound shitty; that sounds nice. I get why you don't want to ever watch baseball again, and it's … heartbreaking, but it's a nice memory."

"One of the few nice ones in a slew of awful ones."

"Look, I'm not condoning it at all. The way he treated both your mother and Gina is appalling. But you said it to Adam and Lily today … Parents are complicated. They're flawed. Sometimes in really big ways. But flaws means having good qualities as well as bad and I would hate … I'd hate for you to still think that all those years with him were a total wash, just because of his flaws. The good doesn't have to — and can't — erase away the bad, but it's still there, right? You had fun faking your aunt's death and eating too much sugar at the ballpark, right? I think that's important."

She's right, of course, like she usually is. "I don't — I … the bean. He's going to hate us at some point, isn't he?"

"Probably. Mason was giving me panic attacks all weekend," Sloan admits. "But hey. You'll be a great dad."

"How?" he asks suddenly, his voice cracking uncomfortably. He keeps hearing that, and he's suspicious. It's something that's been agitating him, like a hard-to-reach mosquito bite, since Sloan announced she was pregnant. He'd purchased twelve parenting books, and he still had no idea. "I legitimately have a pretty bad example. I've never seen great fatherhood in action." They're going to be fine, but good? That's an entirely different thing.

"Because you're a good guy," she says simply. "And you know it was a bad example, so you won't emulate it. And you're much different than your dad. Don, he was what, a twenty-five-year-old wannabe businessman with an empty bank account when you were born? Forced into a marriage because your mom got pregnant? You're not like him. You want to be a great dad, you're ready to be a great dad. And you will be. We'll fuck some things up along the way, but we're going to try, so we'll be fine. I know it," she looks at him searchingly, one finger tracing his cheek. "Can that be enough?"

He initially wants to say he's not sure. He's not. He's ready because they have to be, not because he is. But Clem barks at a bird, and he's transported out of his memories and his wallowing back into his current life, back to his wife, who has so much strength and so much faith in him. And he says, "Yes." Clem yanks at her leash, restlessly ready for the chase, and he straightens. "We should get going."

"Yeah," Sloan says. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"Thank you for coming," he says, and they head quietly out.

***

It's long past noon years in the future, and he's in the middle of another numbers meeting with Reese and the heads of the finance, advertising, and marketing departments. He's in a suit, and his two iPhones are buried under printouts of Powerpoints and Excel spreadsheets. There's a fucking projector hooked up, though they haven't advanced slides in fifteen minutes. His assistant knocks on the door and says, "Don? It's your son's school. They said they couldn't get you on your cell."

He digs around in the pile for the phone, and noticed three missed calls — one from the school, one from Sloan, and one from their nanny, a grad student at NYU who is definitely supposed to be in class right now. All are from within the last four minutes. "Shit," he says, jumping up. "I'll be right back."

Ten seconds later, the Trinity secretary is telling him about how the little guy is in the nurse's office with a fever, after vomiting up his lunch. "Yeah," he says. "Gimme twenty. I'll be there." He pops his head back in. "So sorry, but the kid is sick—"

"Can Sloan grab him?" Jake, the head of finance, asks.

"She's on air at three," Reese replies. "Go. We'll finish this up in the morning."

He calls the car to meet him in the lobby, yells at Amanda to clear his schedule, and he's heading up Riverside Drive within two minutes. Lloyd, the driver, waits outside to glare at anyone who might dare suggest they're double-parked, and he takes the stairs two at a time until he's inside the hallowed halls of the ridiculously expensive, ridiculously exclusive where his kid is a (whip-smart) first grader. He follows the Picasso-inspired kindergarten artwork to the main office, wading through third-graders en route to gym in the process. The secretary waves him through to the nurses office, where the little guy, who looks absolutely miserable, is lying prone on the cot.

"Hey buddy," he says, crouching to take in the clammy face and the pinched, tired eyes. "Mrs. Simon called and said you're not feeling too well, eh?"

"Daddy," he croaks — the childish term itself is a clear sign he's miserable. "I wanna go home."

"Yeah, we're going," he says. "You got your bag?" He nods and points. Don grabs the knapsack, lifts up the kid — no way he's walking — and turns to exit. "Do I need to sign?"

Mrs. Simon shakes her head. "No need, Mr. Keefer, we'll take care of it. And tell Mrs. Keefer and the girls hello. Feel better, honey, alright?" The kid just moans.

They're in the apartment within ten minutes, and he takes one final look at his work iPhone. One hundred-thirty-six messages in forty minutes, and an additional forty in his news-alerts folder. He turns the damn thing off and tosses it on the kitchen counter. It'll just stress him out. He takes out his personal phone and texts Sloan, who's in the throes of show prep — "Got him. We're at home." Last he texts the nanny to pick the girls up from preschool, but take them to the park to stay away from the sick-o. Then he pockets that phone.

The little guy starts making retching noises, and they run to the bathroom so he can puke (apparently, it was chicken-nuggets day at school). Then it's upstairs for PJ's, a quick and negotiated shower, and medicine (a miserable transaction), then back downstairs to park in front of the TV. Don rolls up his sleeves and plants an empty trash can at their side. "Don'tcha have work?" the kid mumbles sleepily, his head in Don's lap. "D'you gotta make some calls?"

"Nah. It'll wait, buddy. You want to watch 'Monster's Inc 3'?"

"When's Mom on?"

He checks his watch. "Maybe twenty minutes."

"Can we watch Mom?"

"Sure," he flicks to ACN, where the current market analyst (not nearly as attractive as Sloan, though nobody is really as attractive as Sloan) is talking stocks.

The kid shifts around, agitated and uncomfortable. "I didn't pull you out of meetings, did I? You're not missing work, are you? You're 'mportant."

He leans over to kiss his son's (hot, too hot) forehead. "You're more important, OK?" He pauses. "I don't say that, do I?"

"Say what?"

"You know, that I'm very busy, that I'm missing work, that I have a meeting? Do I say stuff like that a lot?" He and Sloan try and be good about not having phones out in front of the kids, but he doubts he's particularly successful at that. He is important, and there's a lot of pressure — on both him and Sloan — to balance, to juggle, to take on way too many responsibilities. It gives the kids so much, but comes at a cost.

But the kid shakes his head. "Naw. But you are important and so is Mom. Look — there she is!" TV-Sloan appears, stern and smart, telling everyone to tune in to her show. An announcer says she's the name you can trust most in the afternoon.

"Yeah, show's starting soon."

"Who's she interviewing today?"

He thinks for a second. "I think she's talking to the Senate Minority Leader."

"'S he important?"

"He's a jackass."

"Quarter," he holds up a hand. Don roots around in his pocket and comes up with two dimes and a nickel. He hands them over, and they're immediately inspected closely before being deemed an acceptable substitute. They're tossed on the table next to the sippy cup of 7-Up.

"You know, you should invest that, kiddo. Put it away from college."

"Daddy, only Mom can give investment advice. Or Grandpa. You know that."

"Shhh, she's kidding about that."

"No, she's not."

"Show's starting, watch Mom," he urges with a nudge.

They make it through the top of the hour and as soon as the commercial break starts, his phone — as expected — rings. "Y'llo," he says.

"He's home, with you?" Sloan checks. She has two minutes.

"Yeah, you wanna talk to him?"

"Uh, yes."

He holds the phone down. "It's for you."

The kid takes the phone. "Hi, Mom. Yeah. Yeah. No. Then Dad got me. I feel better. Yeah. Love you." He sticks the phone above his head, and Don grabs it back.

"Hey."

"Is he running a fever?"

"Yeah. We took some kids' Motrin. I sent the girls to the park with Kariin, but he's holding down some crackers and 7-Up."

"I'm coming home right after the show."

"You always come home right after the show."

"Still. I feel terrible."

"Don't, alright? We got it under control."

"How many meetings did you have to move?"

Eight. "Don't worry about it."

She sighs. "I could've —"

"Sloan, no you couldn't've." And no matter what, it's better than last year when she was at Davos and all three kids got the stomach flu. "Don't beat yourself, alright? You need to get back on air." The commercial for LifeAlert is playing; that always plays right at 4:02.30. She has at most twelve seconds before the A block.

"Shit. Love you. Bye."

She's back on the screen, perfectly composed, talking to the sheriff of a small town in Georgia that currently being hunted by a serial killer.

Within seconds, his son's asleep, and Don's leg follows not soon after. He watches the TV mindlessly, almost mechanically filing away notes on Sloan's show — the producer didn't cut quickly enough; something funky is going on with the red in the chyron; she keeps smirking at a Senator's borderline-inappropriate last name — but mostly, he just sits. He runs his fingers through the kid's hair (curly like his, but almost as dark as Sloan's), and traces his his knuckles against his cheek to see if the fever drops. Eventually it does, but there's still another round of barf and some whining before the kid says, "I want Jell-O," in a very clear voice. Don heads the kitchen, routs around, finds some cherry jello, tops it with some whipped cream from a cannister because the kid's having a sucky day and whipped cream makes you feel better. When he comes back with two bowls — dads should get treats too — the kid is half-up, looking peaked but not deathly. He grabs his bowl from Don, says, "Thank you, Daddy," and curls against Don's shoulder, slurping happily at the spoon.

"No problem," he says. He checks his watch. "Game's starting," he says. "Want to watch."

"Who're they playing?"

"The Braves. Harper's back in action."

"Yes please," the kid requests, and Don flicks to ESPN for the game. The Phillies head onto the field, and his son sits up a little straighter to watch, his color improved immediately. Don smiles. It's not a bad afternoon.


	26. Some of it's just transcendental, some of it's just really dumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Next chapter is ready to go. Happily, I finished the whole series last night (woooo!) and so I'm posting ch. 27 and ch. 28 this week (likely Monday/Wednesday, though I may just put them all up). Then, I'm going to go through and clean up the version that are posted — I've tightened the continuity in several of the earlier pieces. I'm also going to add a little commentary to each of them, about why 'x' choice was made or whatever, update some of the epigraphs, and update the chapter titles to be simpler. Finally, I'll post a list of all of the chapters in chronological order, in case that sounds like your jam. It's 352 pages in GoogleDocs, though, so I can't imagine why you would want to do that!
> 
> Thanks again for everyone who is still reading hundreds of pages in. These were not easy or light, despite my billing of "fluff." It means the world to me that you stuck around! I'm very happy how the series turns out, and hope you are as well.

The book of love is long and boring

No one can lift the damn thing

It's full of charts and facts and figures

And instructions for dancing

\- "The Book of Love," The Magnetic Fields

 

February

"Sloan. Thanks for coming by," Reese says, his arms folded formally in front of him. Behind him, Charlie leans against the lower bookshelf, arms crossed, face ruddy. He looks like he's about to explode. "I know it's Valentine's Day."

"It's OK. My husband's bosses are unreasonable and he works until almost midnight," she jokes lightly. She's a little nervous. She rarely has to have meetings with Reese, and they're never for good things. But when your boss's boss tells you to come to his office for a nine p.m. meeting, you come. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," Reese says. "But I do have a problem."

She turns her head, her stomach flipping twice before she steels it. Focus, Sabbith. "OK. Can I … be of help solving that problem?"

"I hope so. My problem is the two o'clock hour. I think it's too financial. I've done some research and none of the, you know, opinion leaders, the Wall Street titans, the political office, none of them are really watching us. The moms, they might, but they think we're making fun of them. Something about you being really smart, I don't know? I think that instead of a financial show, it should be a more news-of-the-day thing. Some politics, some finance, but mostly just genial. Morning television but in the afternoon. The world isn't falling apart, so have an afternoon coffee and a laugh with us. That type of coverage. You see my vision?"

"I ... think I need a little more explanation," she says carefully. Because two o'clock is her show. She's never completely trusted Reese, and this is only confirming her sneaking suspicions, despite Charlie's faith that he's turned from the dark side.

"I was hoping you could help me out by moving to the 7 p.m. hour."

Not at all what she was expecting. "What?"

"We want you to take 7 p.m.," Charlie says, the words finally spilling from him as she realizes the ruddy cheeks were due to pride. "We want you to keep the four o'clock — leading a team, the format will change — then serve as the lead-in to NewsNight."

"By yourself," Reese adds. "You and a desk."

"I — wow — really?"

"Yup."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"I've only been here four years. And I'm an economist." She's trying to think of someone else who ascended so rapidly. Will, but he'd been a regular on Sunday morning shows for years before becoming the legal correspondent. Katie Couric, back in the day, but she was no Katie Couric. She makes sandwiches.

"You know, most people get an offer like this, they say thank you," Reese says, but she can see the hint of a smirk.

"Yeah, but it's Sabbith," Charlie says, a jovial grin on his face. "Remember when she turned down the morning show?"

"True. And Don once told me that she tried to get out of her first sub for Elliot."

"In her defense, she did do half the broadcast in Japanese and end up suspended."

"Alright!" Sloan says. "I get it. Thank you."

"Sloan, we know you might think it's quick but since you've started doing primetime segments you've jumped through every hoop we've given you. You handled yourself well during Genoa and the elections, which wasn't easy. You covered Sandy Hook. Barring That Time I Will Not Speak About Again —"

"You mean, That Time You Totally Just Referenced A Minute Ago?"

"Yes. Barring that time, you've risen. And we think you're going to rise more. ACN wants to be your home for a very long time, and we think you're the face of the next wave of programming here at ACN. We can't give you primetime, but we can give you an evening spot."

"I — thank you."

"Now, have you booked the honeymoon yet?"

"Yeah. The first two full weeks in May." They'll be at a resort in Phuket and they're leaving their Blackberrys with Mac.

"Great," Charlie says. "We'll start putting together the new two o'clock hour, to debut that first day you're gone. When you come back, you'll just do the four o'clock for two weeks, and then we'll launch the new show after Memorial Day."

"Mac's suggested Jim Harper as a possible EP. Totally up to you — you can bring Julia, if you want. But that's the most important decision you have to make."

Julia has a four-year-old and a seven-year-old and her husband is a cop who works cop hours. She absolutely does not want the hours that a primetime or evening show would bring. "I think she'd like to stay at 4 o'clock, with the panel, or whatever. I like Jim for primetime."

"Great," Reese smiles. "Well, we'll start talking with your agent for goals. But I think we'd like to see about one million flat, from the 600K we're pulling in now." It's an ambitious metric: Will's pulls ratings just over 1.4 on the reg, but there are still plenty of nights that the Face of ACN himself doesn't even hit that target.

"Starting salary a mil," Charlie adds.

It's low, she thinks, but it's five times as much as she's making right now, and double what she was expecting in her contract renegotiation this year. She grins broadly. "I guess you'll talk with Sarai this week?" Sarai is Sloan's own Ari Gold, with a Long Island accent and a weakness for a sale at Saks. She's the most intimidating person Sloan has ever met, and she adores her.

"Call her tomorrow; I'm booking her for lunch on Monday."

Charlie looks up at the clock. "Don is still doing prep, if you want to go talk to him. Or do something else — I'll knock this time."

"That was officially a year ago. You gotta let it go, Charlie," she smiles. "The jokes have been made." She rises. "I — thank you."

"Don't thank us — you earned this," Charlie says.

She walks calmly (but sneakily) to the elevator, heads down to the newsroom. Don's not in his office, with any of his producers, or in the newsroom, and she's about to give up when she finally spots him coming out of the edit bay. She scoots over. "Guess what? It's awesome."

"Game of Thrones is coming back early?"

"No. I wish, though," she says, because it has been too long.

"Nerds," Gary fake-coughs as he walks past.

Realizing that there are people around, she grabs his wrist and pulls him into the supply closet. "What is this, a TV drama? Are you killing me or making out with me?"

"What? Neither," she smiles. "Guess what?"

"I'm not going to guess, so let's cut to the chase."

"I'm getting my own show."

"Sloan — you have two of those."

"No. At night. The lead-in to News Night. 7 p.m."

His eyes widen into an appropriate double take. "What? Babe. That's fantastic." He hugs her tightly, lifting her off the ground a bit. "We're going out to celebrate tonight, ok?"

"Hell yes," she says.

"Did he give you a mandate?"

"Reese wants to see a million viewers."

"That hour's pulling what, 590K, 600, right now?"

"Yeah, I think so." That sounded like what Reese said.

Don looks troubled. "You up their viewership by forty percent and what Reese can charge for ads goes up twenty-five percent. If you hit those marks, they're making an extra four hundred grand a night. More if you pull in more in the demos. They'll pay your salary in half a week. What are they offering?"

"A million, but it's not just my salary —"

"They'll cover the operating costs in three weeks, tops, and then it's all profits. You should ask for more."

"Obviously, and I will, but I have to hit the marks."

"You will."

"You're awfully confident."

"You have six hundred fifty thousand Twitter followers and you host two daytime shows. Those daytime hours are two of the highest-rated for the network despite being focused on the topic that honest-to-god always comes in last when viewers are asked to rate what's most interesting to them. Besides, Anderson makes eleven mill, and he pulls in six hundred thousand on a good night when he's practically naked in the middle of a hurricane in Pakistan."

"I don't think that's —"

"I was being dry to make a point. You should ask for more."

"Let me talk it out with Sarai."

"Alright," he says. "I gotta prep." He kisses her. "Congratulations. I'm really — I'm proud of you. You deserve this."

She's about to make an "aw, shucks, Dad' joke, but something stops her. "Thanks, pal," she says instead, running her palm down his cheek.

Don cracks the door open and surreptitiously looks around. He jerks his head, signaling she can follow, and they sneak out.

Or so they think: As they're exiting, Charlie is rounding a corner. "Oh, for crying out loud," he exclaims in a half-groan. "What is with you two?! We're a professional news organization!" He marches off.

Don pauses. "Should we —"

"Nah," she shakes her head with a laugh. "Have a great show, alright?"

After the show they do oysters and champagne at a hole in the wall off Broadway before tucking toward home. Home. As she's unlocking the door to their condo he places distractingly gentle kisses on her neck and ghosts his hands up her waist. The moment, however, is quickly interrupted once they open the door and Clem starts whining from the crate in the kitchen. Sloan disentangles herself from Don to let the poor girl out, and she immediately lunges forward to start licking Sloan's face.

"Awwwww, Clementine, were you lonely?" she coos, scratching Clem's shoulders and neck. While incredibly sweet and ridiculously adorable, Clem has been whiny and clingy since she came to them, has jumped on every available surface, and runs frequently. They keep her in the crate during the day to keep the house under control, but it's clearly making the poor dear miserable. The only thing she doesn't do is pee in the house which, thank God for small favors. "We should bring her into work. Grant always brings his dog in."

"You don't think she's too wild?" he asks. "If she eats Will's shoe we will never hear the end of it."

"I think she's high-strung with the adjustment and then being cooped up for so long," she says. "I know we can't leave her out in the apartment because she'll tear everything apart, but we can't have her in a crate all day. She needs the activity. She'll hang out in the offices, and we'll have the dog walker — or we can do it, if we have the time — take her out at least two or three times. That should keep her calm, right? Won't it, baby girl?" She turns her own puppy-dog eyes onto him.

"Works for me," he sighs, pulling her up to press her nose to his. "And your schedule is probably going to shift a little closer to mine, right?"

She hadn't thought of that. She won't have to go in as early in the morning. "Oh," she says. "Yeah. Probably."

He grins as he kisses her. "As if this wasn't awesome enough."

"As if we don't see each other enough," she smirks back.

Later, as he fits himself into an S-curve along her body, his nose in her collarbone, he says, "I'm really — congrats, Sloan. You earned this."

She thinks of where she was, all those lifetimes ago when she started at ACN, and she murmurs, "Mmmm. Couldn't've done it without you."

"Are you kidding? Of course you could've. You're —"

"Impressive?" she parrots, because it's his most dependable compliment.

He looks at her, a mix of affronted and amused but absolutely in love. He makes her feel special. "You know what? Yes. You're impressive."

"Sure. If you think so. But that doesn't mean I would have turned into a good anchor or reporter. Good econ professor or forecaster, sure. You're why I turned into a good anchor. I mean, come on, you set up my Twitter page four years ago. I had that terrible haircut and I didn't know how to ask a question."

He sifts through her hair, which is nearly as long as it was before she cut it, rubbing a piece through a piece between his fingers absentmindedly. "You're a genius. You would've figured this out."

"Not this quickly," she shifts so she's slightly under him. "Can't we just agree: Better together?"

He extends a fist for her to bump. "Agreed. "What do you want to do with your show? Like, what do you want it to be?"

"All economics, all the time," she jokes, and they stay up way too late plotting. They even get out a notepad and colored highlighters at one point.

It's a pretty good Valentine's Day. Her best, actually.

The next morning, Clem starts mewling as Don crates her up. "We have to take her in," Sloan says decisively. "She sounds so sad; leaving her there for fourteen hours and only two walks is inhumane. We got a dog, now we have to care for the dog."

Don stands and leashes Clem. "Fine, but you're telling Charlie."

"I can't tell Charlie. He just promoted me. I need to coast on goodwill a bit longer."

"Fine. We're sneaking the dog in."

"You've seen Annie, right? This will end poorly."

"I haven't, actually."

"Haven't what?"

"Seen Annie."

"Seriously, with all the crap you give me about not seeing classics?"

He shrugs. "I admit it's a lapse, particularly for an ex-theatre kid. It was just so ..."

"What?'

"Girly."

"Fine. Either you tell Charlie, or I'm telling Will there's a significant hole in your American musical theatre knowledge." She assumes Will absolutely hates Annie, but it's good leverage.

He faux-glowers at her. "You're devious, you know?"

"You love it," she smirks, straightening his tie. Today the tie is paired with a fitted Hilfiger buttondown, APC jeans, a Ted Baker blazer and his Clarks. He's been seriously upping his style game lately (she's a pretty great influence), though he still has plenty of the damn Gap flannel. But he's also randomly started to wear Hugo Boss and Tom Ford and Zegna suits to work from time to time, and she considers that a huge victory. He looks hot rumpled — hell, he's just kind of hot when in action, which is why she likes working with him so much — but the former Goldman analyst in her loves him in the suit. Especially when he inevitably rolls up the sleeves and loses the jacket. It's just all kinds of sexy.

"I really do. So I gotta tell you, I'm not a huge fan of Inside News. What does that mean?"

"Inside the stories." They'd talked about it last night.

"It sounds weird. Kind of porny, even. What do you think about Starting Line With Sloan Sabbith?"

"Starting Line?"

"Start of the evening, the jumping-off point, ahead of the news, you'll take them through the news. Plus, there's an alliteration."

She likes it. "See? I told you I wouldn't be half as good at this without you."

They're still discussing names and formatting and logos and the brand strategy stuff that he's just naturally good at as they enter her office thirty minutes later. "What if we used a panel — whoa! Jim. Hey!" he's standing behind her desk writing a note. "This isn't creepy at all."

"Sorry. Oh — wow — is that your dog?"

"This is Clem. We're going to try and keep her at work with us now since she gets lonely at home. Charlie doesn't know about her yet, but Don is absolutely going to tell him today."

"Hey Clem," he says, and she trots to him to get petted. "She's adorable."

"We like her a lot," Don says.

"Though she's a handful. She's going to need to stay away from Will's shoes."

"Anyways. I came by to say — I came by to say thank you. I talked to Charlie last night, and he told me about the show, and I think it's awesome. And you will be totally great and it's taken them way too long. I wanted to say thank you and congratulations, and I won't let you down. But then you weren't here, and I had a couple other things to say, so I started writing you a note."

"On paper? You could've emailed, texted, g-chatted, come back another time …"

"I admit, not my most well-thought-out idea," he says sheepishly. "Anyways! Thank you. I mean it. This is an incredible opportunity, and it means a lot to me. That's what I wanted to say. Thank you." He's rambling. It needs to stop.

"Thanks," she says. "There's still contract stuff to work out, but it's incredibly excited. And of course I would bring you. You've earned it."

"We should go out and celebrate this weekend," Don suggests. "We have belated Valentine's plans on Saturday night, but how about dinner on Sunday night? A double date — bring Hallie. This is big for both of you," he says, meaning Jim and Sloan. "We can try the Spotted Pig."

"Or we could cook for you guys! We haven't had anyone over since they put the stove in the kitchen," Sloan suggests. There's still some work to be done, but it's functional enough. "You two could come over." It's a good idea to get to know her EP's girlfriend. She'll be seeing Jim more than Hallie will.

"We can't cook, unless they want grilled cheese," Don says to her. "What do you say? Dinner Sunday."

"Sure, but … just you two and me. A two-plus-one-date. Not, like, a threesome. Just you … two … and me."

Don cocks his head. "Hallie busy? We can reschedule."

"I don't know, because Hallie is staying with friends right now," Jim says reluctantly. "Actually, let me amend: Hallie is staying with friends."

"Permanently?" Sloan checks.

"Yeah," Jim sighs, with a smile.

"This is new, or …"

"Last weekend," Jim says.

"Sorry to hear that," Don winces.

"What the hell happened?" Sloan asks, and Don non-subtly elbows her. She shrugs in response.

Jim lifts a shoulder. "The everyday stuff was just harder than we thought, I guess." Sloan nods, then falls silent. She doesn't really know how that goes, but she completely gets having something that you thought was great and strong and made of granite turn out to be made of sand. "She's not crazy about New York — just doesn't like it. She would prefer to be in D.C. or LA or Boston. And, you know, we'd been dating for so long, but we'd never had to spend that much time together, and then there's dishes and laundry and the way I arrange the towel closet and the fact that there is a towel closet. Like, why do you need an entire closet just full of towels? Why can't you put clothes in there too?"

"Because towels are damp and you —" she starts to explain, since she had had a similar discussion with Don about using his bedroom closet for food, since his kitchen hadn't had much storage. but Don cuts her off with, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Anyways. It was a lot."

"Yeah," Don says. "Drinks tonight? We can grab Neal. Guy's night."

"Sure," Jim says. "Though I'm more than happy to just do a dinner Sunday to celebrate the show."

"Nah, let's do drinks," Don smiles warmly, and she's reminded that she married one of the good guys.

"Sure," Jim says, finally smiling back.

"And we'll grab lunch once the contracts are worked out and the show can begin staffing," Sloan smiles.

"Alright," Jim says. "I should — go. Work. Cute dog. Again."

"Thanks," she says. After she leaves she turns to Don. "Well that sucks."

"The breakup? Yeah."

"You're not going to … McHale him tonight, are you?"

"McHale?"

"Yeah. Mac is already a verb — you know, to mack, like to kiss— so I had to use that."

"What's McHale-ing?"

"I dunno … Set him up? Ask him too many personal questions?"

He stares at her. "Sloan, his live-in girlfriend left the week before Valentine's Day. I'm going to get him shitfaced."

"Oh," she considers. "No strippers."

"Sloan, it's the day after Valentine's Day. They're all at home sleeping."

"Actually, tonight seems like a really great day for a stripper's bottom line — most clients were out with wives and girlfriends last night."

He looks horrified. "You actually hear the words coming out of your mouth, right?"

Sarai calls her that morning with congratulations and a demand for lunch, that day. Even though she has a show at two, she's learned not to say no, she she readily accepts. As she's walking into Don's office to tell him she'll be out for an hour, she hears a great crash, and she braces herself for a scene. Sure enough, Clem has knocked over Don's landline and planted herself on the desk. All of his papers are on the floor. Sloan bursts out laughing. "It's going well, I see?"

"I — she tried to sit in my lap," Don protests.

"Can you take her for a walk? She probably needs air. Don't you, baby girl?" Sloan says, reaching down to pet Clem's face with both hands.

"You wanna come?"

"Meeting with Sarai," she says. "That's what I came to tell you."

"Oh, ok," he says. "I think you should go for one-point-five. Minimum. Start at two. Will makes seven, Elliot makes four, you deserve more than a million."

"Yes, sir," she mocks, kissing him. "I'll talk to you later, OK? And take the dog out before she pees on the carpet."

As she's waiting for the elevator, Kenzie shouts her name from behind. "Charlie told me," she says, tripping up to her and wrapping her arms around Sloan tightly. "This is wonderful, Sloan, you'll be great."

"Thanks," she says, stepping into the elevator. "You coming down?"

"Sure," Kenzie steps in. "Are you excited?"

"I am. And thanks for giving me Jim."

"Of course. He's more than ready and I'm just happy he can, you know, get this opportunity but still be nearby. And you two are going to be great. We should celebrate."

"Absolutely. You know, Don and I were going to go out with Jim on Sunday to do that, but why don't we make it a party? We can hold it at our place. That way, it won't be awkward." Screw Don's lack of faith in their cooking; she has a stove now, dammit.

"Sure. Why would it be awkward?"

"Oh, I just meant it might be kind of awkward for Jim if he felt he was tagging along on our date, because of Hallie."

"What?"

Shit.

"Uh, Hallie and Jim. Broke up. Don's taking him out for drinks tonight. He says he needs to get shitfaced."

"They broke up? Why?"

"Any chance we can go back to dinner? Party at our place. Sunday night. You and Will. Jim and Neal and Maggie and Gary, because I'm poaching Gary, FYI. Julia and Elliot and Charlie. Would Charlie socialize with us? Doesn't matter; he's invited." She's rambling, and Don will kill her.

"You don't know why they broke up?"

"You'll have to ask him. He said the day-to-day stuff got too hard."

"That's a stupid reason."

"I don't know — if you're going to be with someone for a long time, that can get a lot longer if the day-to-day stuff is hard." She steps out of the elevator. "I have to meet Sarai, I'll see you later. Dinner, our place, Sunday!"

Sarai's typing busily away on her iPhone by the time Sloan gets there, and she sets it down, still blinking, to give her a hug. "Congratulations. You'll be great," Sarai smiles. "Now, let's talk how much money you deserve."

"They're offering a million. Don says I should ask for at least two."

"How's Don taking the offer, by the way?"

She crinkles her brow. She hasn't asked. Is this a thing? "He's really excited."

"That's good. I assume you'll be making more than him, so I was just asking."

She shrugs. "He's been making more than me for our entire relationship, I came with more savings, we merged bank accounts and forgot to sign a prenup, so I'd say he's pretty happy with it." Whether or not he would be intimidated by her salary had not even crossed her mind.

"Totally awesome," Sarai says. "He's absolutely right about the offer, by the way. Let's get you some money."

After lunch, she pulls out the phone. Don's texted: Don't kill me, but Clem knocked over a lamp. Charlie's not happy.

She texts back, It's fine. I accidentally invited Will, Mac, and like ten other people over for dinner on Sunday. But that's not a big deal either.

A beat. Yeah, yours is a lot worse. We're catering. And you're paying with your new salary.

That night, Don slides in behind her, smelling of booze and ... Cigars? Disgusting. "Did you guys smoke?"

"It's what men do," he says. "It's how you get over a girl that broke your heart."

"Noted. Go shower."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I don't want to smell like a bar."

He groans as she shoves him out of the bed, but complies. Seven minutes later he's sliding behind her again. "How'd it go?"

"Fine," he sighs, settling in against her back. Her eyes close lazily. "Don't get me wrong, I love you — but damn, I am happy I never have to date again."

The rest of the week is a blur of meetings with every network suit imaginable to hammer out the contract and to start developing the idea for the show. It's not done by the end of the week, but it's pretty damn close. She starts the ask at three, and they surprisingly don't back down too far. The guest list for the event grows from ten to closer to thirty — addition to Jim and Mac and Will, she invites Neal, Julia, Elliot and his wife, Maggie, and a producers and staff from each of their shows over for the dinner. Catering actually turns out to be the best idea, because on Friday, Charlie informs her that she and Don will be spending the entirety of Sunday afternoon at an obedience class for adolescent dogs at Riverside Park. No negotiations.

"What if she's the worst dog at the park?" Don asks as they walk Clem to the 87th Street dog run Sunday after brunch. "What if all the other dogs make fun of her? What if she tries to make friends and they reject her?"

"You know what, Danny Tanner, I bet even if the other dogs don't let her sit at their table during snack time, we'll raise her with enough confidence and inner strength that she'll persevere," she snarks back. "More importantly, we have to do this today? We have people coming over, for food and for drink."

"Yeah, that's your fault," Don says with a snerk noise. "And what, you think you have to be home to clean? Sloan, what brand dish soap do we own?"

"The ... strong kind," she says. She doesn't need to know these things. "That ... Smells good."

The class is led by a twenty-year-old in Keds and a ponytail who immediately declares Sloan "too much of a pushover." Don starts laughing so hard he almost falls over until the dog whisperer declares that he's scared of Clem and that's "taking all of his power." But by the end, Clem is able to obey four commands, which is three more than she could handle previously. Everyone walks home happy.

Delfino's delivers two trays of pasta and sides just after six, and pretty soon, their kitchen is bustling with a half-dozen early-arriving guests. "This is … domestic," Neal says as he enters the kitchen.

"It's an apartment Neal, that's what they are used for; they are literally called domiciles by the Census," Don says. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Beer," Neal says, "would be great." Clem runs up to him. "And the dog, the dog is here too." He seemed in awe. Or stoned.

"Yeah, because she lives with us. Because we got a dog and that is it," Sloan cocks her head. "Everything OK?" It's the first time they've had people over, and they're all acting strange.

"What? Yeah. This place looks great. It's just ..."

"It's you guys, in a home. That's strange," Tess says bluntly. Maggie, carefully peeling the label off her beer bottle with her thumbnail, seems to shrug in agreement.

"You remember when we got married, right?" Sloan asks. "There were cupcakes."

"Lots of them," Don adds.

"Yeah. And I thought you had broken up months before that, until there were the cupcakes. Hence, it's strange," Tess says.

"It's very nice, though," Neal reassures hastily. "We're happy for you. And thanks so much for having us over — Sloan, the new show. That's amazing. Congratulations."

She smiles. If she steps back and thinks about it, her and Don being together, married to each other, renovating an apartment, still seems a little strange to her. In the present, it's something she is fully engaged in and wants and is proud of, but she still does have moments when she steps back and realizes how quickly they've moved. Last year at this time, most of the staff didn't know they were dating. But honestly, it also means they're doing something right if they're this low-key. They're not gooey people, and she finds PDA nauseating. She would actually kill Don if he grabbed her ass in the newsroom, the way Will has with Mac. But she likes this, likes them, being with their friends. Before she has any more time to think about it, though, Mac and Will and Elliot and Charlie sashay in, and attention turns toward the former two, as per usual. Sloan is relieved. Mac busies herself finding everyone plates and cups, Will grouses at them and then thanks God that they're messing up an apartment that isn't his, and Charlie winks at her jovially.

Jim arrives last, sloppy and slightly disheveled and overwhelmed-looking, around seven, and the night officially gets started. There are toasts, and more toasts, and jokes about Jim getting shot in the ass and her doing broadcasts in Japanese. She leans against Don, who leans against the counter — partly as a way to normalize their relationship for their colleagues, but also because he is her husband, and they're in their house, and she wants to. Jim, who normally basks in Mac's glow, hangs back uneasily, nursing a beer and smiling at the ribbing. As they start grabbing food and plates off the new dining-room table (it's square and seats 12, and is amazing), she grabs his arm. "You OK?" she asks as Don handles the crowd. "Because this is a celebration, celebrating you, and celebrations are happy, and you are not happy."

"Sorry," he says. "It's just, nobody knows about …"

"Mac knows," she admits.

"What?"

"Have you ever successfully kept something from Mac? No. So shut your piehole," she scolds. "Be festive. It'll be OK."

He sighs. "Yes, fine, festive. Do you think there's breaking news somewhere?"

"No."

"Doesn't matter — I can go break it."

"No, you stay here, and you drink. You are now my EP and I will not allow you to wallow, Jim, I won't."

"You're forcing frivolity?"

"And merriment!"

"You're going to be fantastic to work with, you know," he says sarcastically.

It's an easy, laughter-filled night. She shifts between groups during toasts and gives tours of the apartment. People linger for a while after the food, but eventually people start slipping out — Martin to a girl's, Elliot and Jeannie home to their daughters, Charlie to Connecticut. Soon there's a core group of twelve or so parked in the kitchen, Will dominating the conversation. But she looks out into the living room, where she sees Don, Mac, and Jim huddled in a clutch. Huh. She heads out.

Don's on the couch, Jim's in a chair, and Mac's on the chair's armrest. She joins them, crawling into Don's space, tenting her knees over his lap. He slides an arm around her shoulder. Jim is rambling as Mac pats his back comfortingly. She looks back to the kitchen; conversation has continued uninterrupted.

"It's just, a year ago, I would've thought Hallie and I would still be together. Not married, of course, but together. I liked her. I liked us. And I would've never predicted you guys would be married. You two are married. Like, what the hell?" Jim exclaims, then looks shocked. "I'm sorry, that was really rude, and I don't mean it like that."

"No, man, it's fine," Don shrugs. "I don't think we would have thought that this time last year either."

"He's right," Sloan affirms. "Not till ... May, or so." That was about when he started asking her to move in with him.

"March," he shrugs.

"Really?" she asks. "You knew you wanted to get married in March?"

"Not … the details. But generally, yeah … that's when it started to … come together." God help him, he blushes. Nobody else can see it.

She leans forward and kisses his cheek. "It took me until May," she says.

"Well, you can't always be the smartest person in the relationship."

Jim stares at them, a beer bottle resting against his cheek. "So you dated for ... Six months and then decided that not only did you like each other enough to keep dating, but you wanted to be married. How? Seriously. How."

"How'd we get married? Well, we went to City Hall …"

"Not what I mean."

"Well what do you mean?" Sloan chimes in. She's borderline uncomfortable, but also genuinely curious.

"Just … how did you know?"

Sloan actually doesn't have an answer. She doesn't know, for sure, that it was the right choice; she doesn't know if they'll make it to 'forever.' In some ways, marriage made their relationship even riskier, by attaching actual stakes and assumptions about her future to it. Legally and emotionally banking on changing with someone for fifty years is a big risk. And she hates risk. She's mediocre with uncertainty, even less good at managing a personal life competently. She's bad at attachments, and Don is worse at commitment, if their pasts are any indication.

But ever since Don started asking her to move in with him, she's felt comfortable and even confident in them. On the worst day and worst week of her life, as she was dealing with Genoa and its radioactive, radiating fallout, she just wanted to share the experience with him. That was significant, she thought. At least, that's what she was banking on when she said I will.

"I don't know," Don says. "But for what it's worth, with Hallie? I think you two made the right choice."

"Don't say that. They were having trouble getting used to living together," Mac objects. "It's not a big thing. It's fixable. You can fix this."

"No, but I think that it's not a big thing makes it more important," Don says.

"Explain that," Mac says.

"Listen, I'm not qualified to give advice —"

"He's really not. We've been married five months," Sloan points out. Whatever road they're about to go down, it's a bad one.

"Jeez, thanks," Don says dryly. "Anyways, what I was going to say, I think it's great to be compatible and really enjoy and have fun going to the park and the art gallery and the beach together. That's important. But disagreeing, having fights, being pretty different, that's not the death knell either — you can have different political views, and Sloan's preferred wakeup time is, like four A.M., which is when I'd like to go to bed. And her definition of a good price-point for a couch is absurd. But I do think it's important to be boring with the person you're committing too, which is why I think Jim and Hallie made the right choice."

"Bored with each other?" Jim asks skeptically.

"So we're boring?" Sloan raises an eyebrow. He better talk fast.

"No. Boring with each other," Don says. "That shit you said, about not being able to get through the day to day? That's important, especially if you start thinking you're going to be with someone for a long time. You're not always fighting, you're not always having sex, you're not always having the best time of your life, and you're not always doing anything particularly significant. For God's sake, you're still a person, and there's shit to do. Some days you have to take the dog to the obedience group, and someone has to wait for the cable guy to come when the Internet goes out, and you have to assemble the bookshelf. And none of it's great and none of it's terrible, but it's stuff that you have to do, and now you decide to share that with someone else. You have to like that person, like doing the boring stuff together, since you're sharing space and checking accounts and decisionmaking power about vacations and the bathroom color and the grocery list. Obviously you can't and shouldn't be, like, everything to the other person in the relationship, but I do think you get bored with each other if you can't be boring with each other. When half the time you spend together is watching Netflix or sleeping, you better like doing those things with each other."

"And don't ever watch ahead on Netflix. Even if it's Law and Order," Sloan adds. She'd learned that the hard way.

"I'm just saying, if you're not OK arguing about a wagon-wheel coffee table it's going to be a long life together. "

"That's it!" Mac exclaims. "Bruno Kirby and Carrie Fisher. That's who you two are."

Sloan squints, because the reference sounds familiar, but she can't place it. Don smiles. "I think they end up with the best deal of everyone in the damn movie."

"Which movie?"

"When Harry Met Sally. You haven't seen it."

"That's true of most movies."

"I have it somewhere. We can watch it."

She remembers something. "'I'll have what she's having,' right?"

He grins. "I am seriously so proud of you right now."

"So which ones are Bruno Kirby and Carrie Fisher?"

"They're the best friends. And they have the normal relationship that you're supposed to compare Harry and Sally too," Mac says.

"They're the ones who, at the end of the day, know what they want and quit fucking around," Don shrugs. "It's no less a legitimate relationship than Harry and Sally's. They just recognize what they have sooner. And then they spend the rest of the movie arguing about the damned coffee table and fucking up at charades and bouncing their friends' shit off of one another. Generally, they're boring. But that's most of what a relationship is! I'm not saying that the crazy-passionate stuff isn't great — and we have plenty of that —"

"Damn right we do," Sloan says, slightly indignant. They are great in bed, thankyouverymuch. He rolls his eyes, exasperated at having to explain himself so many times.

"—But my point is that, at the end of the day, they're the partners who are comfortable sharing the quotidien stuff with one another, and they respect each other. And that's what you have to be to one another. So if that's not working out, then yes, I do think that Jim and Hallie made the right choice."

"You're still going to have hard

things that happen, and fights, and friction," Mac says. "That's not a reason to give up."

"You absolutely will," Don says, "and that's why it's a bad sign you're disagreeing about the small stuff. Look, people are different, and when you start a relationship, you realize that you overlap in important ways, which is good and why you're attracted to each other. But those important ways, like mutual interests or compatible lifestyles, might not be the most important ways. One of the most important ways, I would argue, is an easiness during the boring parts of life. And if you don't have that, it's problematic. I'm not trying to make a Grand Unified Theory on relationships or anything, just trying to say why I think it's a good thing Hallie and Jim broke up. And by the way, Mac, you and Will have that easiness, and Harry and Sally had that easiness. Well, they did eventually. Just so it's clear we're not fighting a proxy war."

"I'm not saying we are," Mac says quickly, but Sloan doesn't quite believe her — she looks far too reassured by Don's words. She herself is still not entirely satisfied. "I just …"

"Want me to be happy?" Jim says ruefully. He's been quiet through Mac's ranting and Don's somehow-romantic soliloquies. "I know, sis." He stands, kissing Mac's temple. "I … need another drink."

Mac stares after him. "You think he'll be OK?"

"Of course," Don says. "Did you even like Hallie?"

"She was nice," Mac shrugs. "She seemed to make him happy. Sure, I guess I liked her. I barely knew her."

"You gotta let them do their own thing," Don points out.

"You sound like Charlie," Mac pouts as she sucks on her drink's straw.

"You really think the reason we work is because we're so boring?" Sloan asks later, after everyone is gone and as she is settling into bed. She's in one of his flannel shirts and thick, oatmeal-colored socks — she's started wearing them since he always thinks her feet are freezing. Using the remote, she toggles the Amazon Prime to When Harry Met Sally, which she purchases.

He smiles at her as he comes out of the bathroom. "There's nobody else I'd rather watch Netflix with," he says. At her face, he says, "What? You want to skip the last eight seasons of Law & Order? We can start on The Office. You're going to love it, I promise."

"That's not the point. You think we work because we're boring?" She adjusts her glasses so she can see.

"What? Yes. No. Whichever answer is right," he says quickly. "I don't … I don't think our relationship is boring. And I don't think we're bored. You got that right? It's just, I like doing the boring things with you. I like the other stuff too — a lot, don't get me wrong — but one of the reasons I knew I wanted to marry you was that I liked doing the boring stuff with you. That I'm not bored when we do those things." He kisses her.

She leans back. "We are boring, though, aren't we?"

"I don't think so?"

"We took the dog to obedience class today, cleaned up the living room, and had our coworkers over for dinner," she says. "God, how did we get here?"

"OK, fine. And would you rather be doing that or … going to a naked rave on a fjord in Iceland with glowsticks?"

"Fjords are in Norway."

"Point still stands."

"And that's your idea of an exciting time? An ice rave?"

"You're deflecting, professor."

"Am I at that rave with you or alone?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Because if I'm alone, I'd rather be doing chores with you," she turns onto her side and runs a hand over his ribs and smirks. "And if I'm with you, it doesn't matter."

He smirks too. "I see what you did there," he says. "I'm smart like that."

"You are, are you?"

"I am," he kisses her deeply. "So you don't care that we're boring and boring with each other?"

"As long as it's well established that we have a fabulous sex life, yes, I don't care. I kinda like it," she admits.

"Yeah?"

"We're partners, and equals, and I like that," she says, "and I'm not stupid enough to think a rave in Iceland or … epic fights followed by makeup sex twice a week is a better day than playing Rock Paper Scissors over who has to work from home and meet the Time Warner guy."

He rubs a thumb against her cheek. "I love you, you know."

"I love you too," she says. "I just bought When Harry Met Sally, you want to watch it?"

He groans. "We own that. Did you buy it or rent it? Because we could watch it for free, we just would've had to hook up the DVD player."

"It was eleven dollars," she protests. "Come on."

"Let's just watch," he sighs. "But remember, Bruno Kirby? Best character in the damn film."


	27. Maybe I'm a man and you're the only woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! We're in the final stretch! Thanks so much for sticking with me. By the end, it should be pretty clear what one chapter remains :). I'm pretty excited about this chapter, and hope you all enjoy. I'll be back later this week with the last installment!

Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time  
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you  
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song  
Right me when I'm wrong  
Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you

-"Maybe I'm Amazed," Paul McCartney

February

Sloan has absolutely zero desire to give birth on air, so she starts her maternity leave a full week before her due date, on the last Wednesday in January. They — her staff, Will's staff, Elliot's staff — throw her a surprise goodbye party/shower that day (she'd barred them from throwing anything at the office earlier), which is very sweet, and there's some catcalling, courtesy of Neal, as she and Don walk out after Elliot's show, weighed down by a dozen gift bags.

"I guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow," she remarks as they get into the cab, gesturing to the piles of bags that need to be organized. She pulls the card out of Martin's gift to read it. "When the baby makes you wail, know that Martin and Gary will never fail. Redeem this card for ten free hours of babysitting by two awesome dudes. Oh dear Lord. I hope to god we never get desperate enough to use this one."

"Yeah, but let's not throw it out for a few weeks though," he says, filching it. "We might," at her expression, he says, "Not saying that we will!"

"You will," the gravelly-voiced cabbie calls. "My wife an' I have five. This your first?"

"Yup," Don smiles tightly.

"When're you due?"

"Next week. Can't come soon enough," she says.

"Careful. First ones always come late, that's what my wife says. She was a nurse, for 20 years."

"Well, his dad's pretty impatient — let's hope that's genetic," Sloan says as they get out. "Thank you!"

"Good luck!" he calls, driving off.

They drop all the bags in the nursery without bothering to put anything away — like she said, she's got plenty of time tomorrow — and she pulls a onesie out. They're so incredibly inexplicably tiny. She studies it, then casts a look over at Don: One day, the little boy who will barely fill this onesie in her hand will grow up and be around the size of his dad, his tall, strong, sturdy, handsome dad. She hopes the kid is a lot like Don.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, stopping in the doorway when he realizes she's not following him anymore.

She snaps the onesie into a square fold, and goes, "Trying to see whether I could picture a Henry wearing this."

He wrinkles his nose, because he's still not persuaded by her front-runner name. And it's not even that she likes the name, she just dislikes it less than everything they've come up with. "What about a Jack?" he pitches. She blinks in concentration. It's not that she doesn't like the name Jack — in theory, it's fine — she just doesn't … love it. It seems bland. She doesn't want a bland child.

"Not really, but maybe a Samuel?" she tries, joining him, wrapping her arm around his waist and leaning on his shoulder. He runs a hand down her upper arm.

"Or an Andrew?" He's suggested it a couple times; she knows he likes it.

"I kinda like those," she says, her voice muffled by sleep and the crook of his neck. "Andrew Thomas Keefer. Samuel Thomas Keefer," she tests out against his collarbone.

"Mmm," he murmurs affirmatively. "Let's wait till we see him, though." They'd agreed to do that and while it's a good idea, she just wants to know this kid.

They fall asleep almost immediately, but she wakes up way too early the next morning — the baby's moving around, so she is too. She tries to not wake Don but especially this late in the game, he's got a sixth sense. They fool around lazily, eventually having sleepy side-sex, and then snuggle in bed all morning. "You have to go to work," she chides with a yawn.

"Mmm, twenty more minutes," he says, pushing the hair out of her face. "We've got one more week, if we're lucky, of just us. I'm going to stay here for a while." He gives her that smiles that makes her feel like the luckiest person on the planet, and she is reassured, once again, how overwhelmingly right this choice — this him, this them, this life — is.

But she can't help but tease him. "You're a sap, Keefer, you know that?" she laughs but with a genuine full-stop smile, tugging her fingers through his curls. She hopes the baby gets those too.

He laughs too. "Fine," he says. "I've got one more week of semi-decent sleep — or at least as decent as one can get with a forty-weeks-pregnant woman taking up two-thirds of the bed and kicking and hogging all the sheets — and I'm going to savor it."

She punches him lightly. "Thanks, pal."

"You wanted not-sappy," he retorts, sliding a hand behind her head to kiss her. "Are you sure you're okay at home?"

"Yeah," she says. "Are you sure you're okay at work?"

"I'm actually not sure. I don't like you being here alone all day, alone," he admits.

"This is an incredibly perverse macho thing you have going here, you know," she says. "Most couples don't work in the same building. The men go hours without knowing what their womenfolk are up to."

"Ok, first off, womenfolk? And you accuse me of being sexist. Secondly, I'm spoiled and I like working with you. Sue me."

She laughs. "No thanks. I need your money. And you need to get up." She shoves him out of bed as he groans.

The next few days pass by agonizingly slowly as she does what can only be described as 'nesting.' She cleans (kind of. She's always been bad at it, and they've hired someone, so it's not exactly efficient.). She folds and re-folds baby clothes, and reads the books her doctor recommended pre-labor. Mostly she skims them and then reads economics journals. She obsessively plays online Scrabble and, when that gets boring, tries poker — first no buy-in and then for small change. She takes Clem out for very long walks, wearing the world's biggest coat and a huge hat just in case someone recognizes her. She reworks her syllabi for next semester, figuring it's now or never. On Sunday, Mac and Will come over to make them brunch, since she absolutely does not feel like going outside. "You know, this time next week, we could bring you food and the baby could be here!" Mac says excitedly. "How do you feel?"

"Like there is a fully-grown child rolling around in my uterus," she says matter-of-factly. "And he's kicking my rib cage."

Her delivery date — Wednesday the fifth — comes and goes with nary a contraction. Don texts her every five minutes, and she just texts back, "Big fat nope." It's disappointing.

"Why exactly did you think this baby would arrive on time?" her mother asks in an arch, bored voice when Sloan calls the next day to complain. It was the same voice she used to use when Sloan was younger and would whine about unfair teachers or perpetually flaky friends or boys who were vague with their messages.

"Because it's got to be getting boring in there?" she asks. "I don't know."

"Sloan, this is your first lesson in parenthood — no matter what you want, he's going to do things in his own way."

"Is this your way of bringing back up how you wish I had gone to law school?"

"I still think you would have made an excellent lawyer," her mom acknowledges. "But you were always going to follow your dad into economics."

"You got Sawyer, that's enough."

"I wanted to go four for four," Nami says. "But, my children being children, they did their own things. And as a parent, I just supported them and nurtured whatever path they wanted to take."

She groans. "Got it, Mom. Babies have minds of their own."

"He'll be here before you know it, and in four weeks you'll be wishing you had a little more time to yourself," her mom coaches. "Enjoy it. And we'll see you all next weekend, okay?"

"What if he's not here by then?"

"Then we'll see you and Don and have a lovely time."

She's watching Youtube videos on how to knit when Don gets home. "Nothing?" he asks.

"Nothing," she sighs.

The week melts away. On Friday she goes out and buys knitting needles and struggles through making half a blanket. On Saturday she and Don pack and re-pack hospital bags, and she thinks she might be having a contraction, but the feeling passes quickly and doesn't return. She turns to spicy food and sex and while both are enjoyable, the baby stays put.

They go in for a checkup on Monday morning, five days post due-date, before Don goes to work. It doesn't seem like Something Thomas Keefer is moving at all. "No, you're effacing, so it should be soon. This is normal, for first babies," Michelle promises. "It should be soon, though. Do you want to induce?" Their answer, as it has always been, is no. Don is visibly anxious when he leaves to go to work, and she's beyond bored the entire day.

Tuesday passes in a similarly tedious fashion. She eats a dozen peppers for lunch, and again thinks she feels a few contractions, but it passes quickly. After watching Brianna do a barely-passable job at her show, and hearing the News Night music cue up, she makes an impulsive decision. Fuck waiting around for this baby to drop like a Beyonce album. She's going in, and going to catch up with her friends, and watch her husband do his job, which is always sexy. So what if she can only wear leggings and walks at the speed of an excited sloth? She's over this. She crates Clem, pulls on the Toms that Maggie and Jim bought her — surprisingly useful shoes, since her feet are so swollen, plus they're painted with the ACN logo which is all kinds of adorable — and heads out.

"Sloan?" Neal's the first to spot her as she walks in. It doesn't look that much different. "What, uh, how's it going?"

"I'm a week past my due date, I can't see my feet, and I'm alone for fourteen hours a day. I am wearing a maternity hoodie, since that is a thing. A maternity hoodie! I've read all my old economics journals, re-folded onesies about eighteen times, made two grand playing online poker, and cleaned. I cleaned, Neal. I learned how to knit. I was bad at it, and I hate being bad at things. How's it going for you?"

Neal nods, his whole body bobbing with fear. "Uh, pretty good. You know, comparatively."

"Sloan!" Don yells from upstairs. "Sloan Keefer!"

She whirls around. He's somewhere between pissed and surprised: he's never referred to her as that in public. Hell, she's not even sure he's used it in private, ever. Whatever; she likes it. Sloan Keefer. Even though it sounds like a tax firm.

"Thank god," she says as he jogs up, fumbling with his phone. She's jealous of how quickly he can move. He bumps into her with a kiss.

"What's wrong? Are you in labor? I didn't miss a call, did I? You could've gone directly to the hospital, and just —" he looks at her. "You're not in labor."

She purses her mouth into a line. "Nope. Your kid is still staying put so far. I got bored."

"Bored? What the hell, Sloan, you've been bored for ten days."

"I know. I think that's a problem. So today I decided to do something about it."

"You need to go home! You could," he looks around before lowering his voice, "go into labor. Literally, go into labor, at any moment. You're almost forty-two weeks pregnant!"

"So being at home would help that, how? I need this kid out, Keefer, and if he's not coming out, I need to not be at home."

"You're not working."

"I didn't say I wanted to work. I wanted to see people. I'm going into the control room to talk to Kenzie."

"You know she's producing a show, right? And you're going to sit down when you're in there," he says, asserting his nominal husbandly authority.

"Because moving around has clearly compelled him to come out so far," she sighs, and waddles toward the control room.

"Keefer!" Charlie yells.

"I already got the lecture from my husband, what now?" she complains as Charlie jogs up.

"I'm just glad to see you. It's the 21st century. Women don't need to be cloistered until childbirth. I came up with a few reasons why I think you should consider 'Charles' as a name. Would you like to hear them?"

"Only if you're heading to the control room. Don says I have to sit."

"He's a decently smart guy," Charlie says. "You should probably listen to him."

"Probably," she sighs, feeling a twinge in her back. This damn kid just keeps getting heavier and heavier the longer he stays in there. She's pretty sure she's going to give birth to a 15-pound baby. ACN will send a camera crew to interview them. "So you were going to sell me on the merits of Charles?"

"Yes. Let's first begin with the number of kings that are named Charlies …"

"Sloan! You're still pregnant?" Mac smirks as she enters the control room.

"Appears to be," she retorts.

"Why are you here?" Jake asks.

"Have you ever tried being alone for fourteen hours a day? I was knitting and playing online poker."

"How'd those work out?"

"Good at one, not so good at the other. I'll leave you to guess which is which."

"You should sit down," Kenzie says.

"I know. That's what Don said." She pulls a chair up. Jake hands her some water, and she watches the last twenty minutes of the show. It's good to be back.

Afterwards, she and Will and Mac and Charlie sit in Will's office. "Don't you find it seriously amazing, that he's in you safe and snug today and in a day or two or three he'll be out and you can hold him? I mean it really is just miraculous," Mac says in wonderment.

She crosses her arms across her stomach protectively. "Terrifying, actually."

"Sophie was three weeks early and was five pounds, three ounces, when she was born. I remember thinking she felt like paper. A few years later when I wasn't completely terrified of breaking her, I went back and started weighing things around the house to see what else weighed five pounds, three ounces. You know what I found? A cantaloupe. My daughter was the size of a cantaloupe," Charlie shakes his head.

"Have you settled on a name yet?" Will asks.

She shakes her head. "I keep thinking when we see him, we'll figure it out, but he might go the Picabo Street route." She looks at the clock; Don's show is about to start. "I want to go watch Don," she says, leveraging herself up with her arms.

"Are you sure you're OK to stay? We can drive you home," Mac asks.

"Yes. This baby isn't coming out until March," she says, running her hand along her back as she feels another twinge. Shit. That might actually be a contraction.

"You sure you don't want to go home?" Don asks as she sits down in his control room. "Get in bed? Take a bubble bath? Relax?"

"No, I definitely would like to be here instead," she says insistently, taking in a deep breath. Don gives her a strange look, but mutters pregnancy, and gets to work.

And it's calming, being there. But by the end of the show, the contractions are five and a half minutes apart, though she's kept it to herself, passing off her pacing as restlessness. Don wraps up quickly and grabs her coat, wanting her to be not at the office, and by 11:03, they're walking out the door.

At 11:04, though, another contraction hits as they're stepping out of the elevator. Four minutes and forty-five seconds after the previous one. She stops, and Don looks at her. "So this cab home?" she says calmly. "Should actually probably go to Cornell-Pres."

His eyes widen. "Are you — shit."

"Four minutes and forty-five seconds apart."

"How long have these been going on?" he exclaims.

"All day, I guess, but I didn't really notice until Elliot's show started."

"You're in labor?"

"Yes."

"With our child?"

"Your child, now can we please go to the hospital?" she yells. Don numbly hails a cab.

"You were in labor in front of me for an hour and I didn't notice?"

"I was trying not to distract you while you were working! You're not going in the rest of the week!" she shouts. "I'm calling Michelle. To let her know we're coming in."

The cabbie is somewhat reluctant to take them, until she promises to buy him a new car if her water breaks en route. He speeds, and she doesn't.

"We need our stuff," Don says abruptly as they walk into the hospital. "That bag we packed … Maybe I should call Mac."

"It's 11:30 at night, let's call her in the morning," she says. "We'll probably be up all night. We won't need pajamas or anything. Unless you're planning on sleeping?"

"Oh. Right. No. That's right." At his overly nervous, haggard face, she reaches over, abruptly, and pinches his upper arm. Hard. "Ow!" He yelps.

"Hey, mister," she says, now that she's got his attention. "I'm going to need you to focus, alright? I need you to …" she trails off, as he runs a hand along her cheek, cups her neck, kisses her slowly.

"Hey. I'm here. We got this, alright?"

Her contractions are now four minutes apart — this child, once he gets started, apparently does not mess around — and she's admitted quickly, outfitted in a gown, plopped in a bed, and hooked up to machines. Michelle swoops in, cup of coffee in hand, and smiles wryly as she looks over the charts. "When did you first start experiencing contractions?"

"I guess all day, but I didn't notice until Don's show started, which was at 10."

"Well, looks like this little guy is definitely coming tonight," Michelle says. "You're already at five centimeters. I'm going to administer the epidural now. It's a walking dose, which means you'll be able to move around a bit, and it's a good idea to walk around between contractions, if you can."

"Yeah," Sloan says, remembering the books, but absolutely at a loss as to how she's going to be able to walk through this process. It's almost laughable. The epidural, the next few rounds of contractions are a blur — a nurse brings ice chips for her and coffee for Don, who hasn't sat down once.

"We still haven't totally decided on a name," she pants after a contraction.

He squeezes her hand. "Normal-first-name Thomas Keefer sounds pretty good," he promises teasingly, then shrugs. "I really do want to meet him first," he admits thickly. "Before we pick something he's stuck with for the next ninety years." Their son could live into the twenty-second century, she realizes. If that's not a sign of permanence, she's not sure what is.

"No Emmanuel," she insists. It's important to tell him this now. "Or Maynard. Don't let me name our kid Maynard, Don."

"Oh hell no," he agrees.

The clock rolls past one, then two and three, as she transitions into the final stage of labor. Don does everything right — paces, snarks at a rude nurse, tilts ice chips into her mouth, holds her hand, tells her she's beautiful. The last is hilarious, because she's shivering from the effort of the contractions, and she actually just wants to throw up and knows that there's no circumstance they've been in where she has looked worse. She wants to correct him, but his voice is honestly a haze, and since all of her effort is directed toward dealing with the contractions, she doesn't have enough energy left to do so. Every so often she feels his lips brush her temple, but she can't respond.

Eventually Michelle's voice cuts through, sharp and direct as she tells Sloan to push. She obeys, her fingers clenching Don's like a sieve. She's not sure how long this part lasts, but it's definitely quite a while. She hears Michelle report He's crowning — take a break, let him come by himself. There's some more pushing, then a cry — not as sharp as Sloan had been expecting, but distinct (and profound) all the same.

"Sloan — shit, Sloan," Don says, mesmerized, as the baby's extracted. He's immediately placed on Sloan's abdomen, patted dry with a clean towel.

"Dad, we have to cut the umbilical cord. Do you want to do the honors?"

"Do it, Don," she says, leaning back finally as a much lighter contraction flows through her. She sucks in a few deep breaths, and she feels tired but new. Like her son.

The baby is tiny in Don's palms, and Don looks terrified of dropping him. He moves the baby slowly around the bed, to Sloan, and she instinctively reaches out for the baby. Don hands him over readily and she curls him into her chest and shoulder. Skin-to-skin contact is good, is recommended. He is almost frighteningly weightless — she is supposed to know what to do with him? Unsurprisingly his hair (there's a lot of it) is dark, and she can't really make out any of his features yet — his face is scrunched and his skin is dark and mottled and gross and slick. He does a little sigh-cry, clearly unhappy to be out in the big wide world, and then his liquid-bright, beady, unfocused eyes settle lazily on her.

He's perfect.

She is in love.

Don settles up next to her, with a sigh, puts his hand over hers on his tiny, perfect, back. She stares at their hands, then looks up at him. He is stunned silent, practically brimming over with emotion. She leans forward, very gently, and kisses him. He responds, pressing into her just a little bit harder before breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers. He mouths thank you, and she smiles, unable to say the words back. She is too full for words.

There is still much to do — she isn't even done with labor — so the moment doesn't last forever. He is taken away to be weighed (eight pounds, one ounce; much larger than Sophie Skinner but still half the size of the cat Sloan had growing up), measured (20.5 inches long), Apgar-tested (at a 9, he's already killing the curves), and placed in oversized (on him) blue mittens and a tiny blue-and-white cap. He's sponge-bathed, but a little of the white filmy gunk (the origins of which she doesn't really want to consider) remains on his forehead and chest. A blanket is draped over his back, but he otherwise remains in skin-to-skin contact with her. "He's so big," the sassy nurse, who now looks nineteen, coos, but Sloan disagrees. He is tiny.

Don calls his mom, whispers a message — "Hey, it's me. I'm just — you probably know why I'm calling, actually. Call me back when you get this. Preferably as you're en route to the city, since I think you'll wanna come up to New York." — and checks if she wants to call her parents. She demurs: her mom is a light sleeper and will wake up, ruining her entire night of sleep. Besides, she just wants a little more time of this. Nobody in the world, nobody besides their doctors, knows that she and Don are not a couple any longer. They are a family.

He is alert and inquisitive, their son, and he looks around as they look him over. They count fingers and toes, memorize his tiny features (even though they'll change), double-check he's a son and not a daughter, watch his tiny tongue flick over an infinitely small mouth. He moves, stretches for a few minutes, then settles, confused, against her. He's uncomfortable in this big wide world, and pinched and scrunched from his months of pretzeling up inside her womb. She runs her hands all over him, smoothing his wrinkles, memorizing him. One of his ears is folded over, and it's absolutely adorable.

He's awake, so they're awake too. He feeds eventually, and Don doesn't move from her side. He's taken away for shots and eyedrops and swaddling, and falls asleep soon after. They place him in a port-a-crib on the side of their bed, and continue to watch him there.

It's an entirely sleepless night, which Sloan absolutely doesn't mind — if she closes her eyes and goes to sleep, he might disappear, after all. After that first nap the baby doesn't really doze, too startled to be in the world. At seven, as Don's cradling him, he says, "I gotta call Elliot and tell him I'm not gonna be in. Probably not coming in ever again, actually," he jokes as he hands the baby off to her.

"Tell him hi," she says, eyes not off him.

"You know, he's going to ask for a name. Do we have one yet?"

She stares at him. He's spunky, that's for sure. And he's curious — his eyes are always open. Him being intelligent is a given, but he also seems like he's going to be a fun kid. An overall good one, but someone that keeps them both on their toes. He's got a lusty cry and a good appetite; she can see her son loving life. He'll laugh a lot. He'll make them laugh a lot. He needs a name that says all these things about him.

"What do you think about Max?" she asks suddenly. It hasn't been on either of their lists; she'd considered it once but thought it sounded a little too smart-alecky. But she absolutely sees it fitting this little guy.

"Max," he looks down at him. "Max," he says again. "Max Thomas Keefer."

"Maybe Maxwell, for diplomas and things? Max for everything else," she suggests.

"Maxwell Thomas Keefer," he tests out. He smiles. "That's it."

"We should call Mac and Charlie and Will, when you're done. And my parents; they'll be awake soon."

With that, with the name picked, the spell of anonymity breaks, and they're hurtling through the first few hours as a public family. Alison finally gets her message and calls back, ecstatic, before promising to be in New York that afternoon. They wake up her parents, who switch their Friday ticket out for Thursday, and Facetime her sisters, who all demand photos, immediately. Don and Elliot have a short, very manly discussion about fatherhood, and then she calls Mac, who greets her with a yawn and, "So did you have the baby yet?" which brings Sloan back to the time that Mac accidentally guessed they were getting married.

She smiles with her whole body before replying. "Yes, actually. At 3:52 this morning. Maxwell Thomas Keefer — Max. 8 pounds and 4 ounces and basically perfect."

Mac has always been a reliable substitute for Paul Revere, and by 10, Will, Mac, and Charlie are there with gifts (flowers and economics journals for her, Scotch and cigars for Don, a four-foot-tall stuffed giraffe and picture books for Max), her hospital bag, and the good news that they walked Clem. Neal, Elliot, Jim, and Maggie are all right behind them, piling gifts on top of the first round on the plastic nightstand next to her bed. They help her take the first shot of the three of them with Don's iPhone, which he then posts from his Twitter account (which has a very respectable 26,000 followers). She fiddles with his message — Couldn't be prouder of my rockstar wife, SloanSabbith. We welcomed Max at 3:12 this morning — to make it her own before retweeting it to her 908,000 followers. She knows it has to happen, and at this point would just prefer to control the message. Within seconds, she starts getting congratulations. After the first few roll in, she puts the phone aside. She's got more important things to do.

The room is overstuffed and underfurnished — Don curls on the bed with her and Maggie sits on her boyfriend's lap in the one of the two chairs and Charlie gets the other. Elliot leans his long frame against the wall, and Neal hops onto the windowsill, his feet swinging three inches from the floor. Will stands at the foot of the bed, leaning on the plastic frame, and Mac perches at Sloan's feet on the bed. And in the center of their weird, larger-than-she-ever-anticipated, extended news-family is Max, blinking, mewling, entrancing. She's reluctant to give him up, but he slowly makes the rounds.

"Sloan, Don, he's perfect," Maggie breathes as Jim nervously holds Max with both palms along the length his forearm. Maggie traces the shell of his unfolded ear with her index finger. "It's like — obviously, I have seen babies, but everything is so miniature," she says, entranced by his smallness and wholeness.

"Any time any of you want to give him a friend, that'd be great," Don says. "Not that I think he'll be hurting for friends, but back-ups at the lunch table."

Will laughs. "Doubtful. And we wouldn't repay the favor by naming any kid after you two, so don't get any ideas."

"What would that name even be? Slon?" Mac wonders out loud. "Doan?"

"What are you talking about?" Sloan asks.

"Max? You named him after Will and I? The Macs. Ergo, Max," Kenzie explains.

Don pales. "Oh shit. No, we did not do that. We named him after …" he spaces, realizing they didn't have a reason for the choice.

"We just liked the name," she insists. "He seemed … Max-like."

Charlie's lips curl into a smile. "I'm mad that you didn't go with Charles, but luckily he's cute enough that I'll forgive you."

"We didn't name him after them!" Sloan says.

"It was subliminal," Mac laughs. "We're flattered, really."

"How much do I have to pay you to not state on NewsNight that I named him after you?" Sloan begs. "I have stock. I can pay."

"Too late," Neal smirks. "I already tweeted it from Will's account." Sloan grabs her phone, finds Will's page, and sure enough — So proud to be the co-namesake of this little guy: SloanSabbith and DonKeeferACN's son Max.

"If we agree that he's named after you, can he get into Will's will?" Don asks.

"I mean, all Will's money has to go somewhere, so sure," Mac shrugs.

"He's named after you guys," Don says immediately, in a deadpan tone. "That'll be a half-million dollars to his college fund, please."

"Somehow I think you guys will do OK, anyways," Will says. He's holding Max, who looks like a squirmy loaf of bread, in his large, capable hands. Sloan smiles.

Soon enough, Mac and and Neal and Jim and Maggie have to head in, Jim assuring her that her show will be just fine with Brianna and she assuring him that she will be watching, as will Max. Elliot leaves to make an appointment in Midtown. Charlie and Will — honorary grandpa and uncle — linger, passing Max back and forth and cracking jokes about who he looks like that are so mean she demands that she get her son back, thank you very much.

"Two years ago, you ever think they'd have this one?" Will asks Charlie, one of Don's gift cigars clamped (unlit) between his teeth.

Charlie snorts. "Friday is Valentine's Day, right? So the anniversary of me walking in on them getting busy —"

"A, not in front of my son, thank you, and B, everyone was wearing clothes, Charlie," she retorts. She tucks the blanket back around him. She's still not sure how secure 'swaddled' is.

"So, no," Charlie says. "Not in the slightest. But," he grins, "in retrospect, I'm not surprised at all." He stands. "I need to head in, as does Will," he announces. "You two make beautiful babies." He kisses Sloan's cheek.

"Before we go, Don needs to have one of these cigars," Will announces. "It's tradition."

"Whose tradition? We're the first people to actually have a kid," Don points out.

"It is tradition because I say it is, Donny," Will says imperiously. "Of course, because of Obamacare, we can't smoke inside, so we're going outside. Get your coat on."

Don looks at Sloan and she sighs and smiles. "It's fine. Go be manly and bond."

"I'll brush my teeth," he promises, kissing her cheek.

"So whipped," Will sighs. He leans over and kisses Sloan's temple. Then he leans against her pillow and whispers, so that the others can't hear, "I'm proud of you, sis. You done good."

She looks up. "Thanks, bro," she replies, and he chucks her under her chin.

"Bring my godson into the newsroom later this week," he says as he exits.

Don looks at her, alarmed. "Should I tell them Mitch is the godfather?"

She laughs. "Let's just wait till the baptism and see if he figures it out."

"I love you," he says.

"I love you too," she replies, and he's out the door.

She looks down at Max, and realizes it's the first time, ever, that she has been alone with him. She is so sore and so tired, but still somehow alert. Since she's never done well with silence, she begins to talk. "Hey," she says. "I'm your mom. You don't know what that means yet — and right now, I think I'm just here to feed you — but it means I love you very, very much," she traces his features. She thinks he looks more like Don. "I'm not really sure how to do this whole mom thing, so I apologize in advance. I've never changed a diaper, for instance. So if we ever decide to give you a sibling — that's a big if, since this was not the most pleasant experience of my life — he or she will have significant more practiced parents than you had." He looks unimpressed. She has a smart kid. "Your dad is named Don," she says, "and if you're smart, you'll try and grow up to be a lot like him. He's a pretty smart guy — not as smart as I am, but pretty smart — and he cares more than anyone else I know. And as a bonus, he loves you a lot, a lot, a lot, too." He gets fussy so she shifts him. "I want to be upfront about a few other things. We work a lot, and so we might miss a soccer game or two throughout your childhood. But we'll feel guilty about that, and we'll try and be at as many as possible. I only ask that you not guilt-trip us into buying you things when we're absent, since we'll totally fall for that. Also, some of our friends are weird. Aunt Mac will probably try and kidnap you more than once. Just don't be scared; even when she's yelling, she's pretty harmless. We're going to try and be pretty strict, just FYI. We'll probably yell at you when you try and break curfew. We also both kind of swear a lot, though I promise we're working on toning that down so you don't go to preschool saying jackass — shit," she rolls her eyes at her lapse. "We have work to do on that front. And your dad really does think he can sing, but he can't, so his lullabies might hurt your ear. We're probably going to screw you up in many, many ways that I can't even imagine right now. But," she sighs, "we love you. So much. And we will always love you. And always be there for you. Whatever you do — at the end of the day, all you need to do is come home. We will be there. I promise. Even if you've stolen a car. We'll yell a lot, but we'll still love you."

He starts crying then, and a nurse hears, comes in, and helps her breastfeed. "You can send him to the nursery, get some sleep," she suggests when it's over.

"I — I would like him here, if that's alright," Sloan says, burping him. He gurgles on her shoulder.

"Absolutely. Just make sure you rest. He's pretty dependent on you right now." The nurse helps get him into the bassinet before leaving.

She's watching him sleep when Don comes back in. "Hey," he says. "He sleeping?"

"Yeah," she says. "I — I nursed him and then …" She gestures at the kid. He has his thumb in his mouth, and Sloan actually can feel her hormones start to act up at the cuteness.

"Isn't the rule you sleep when he sleeps?"

"Yeah, but I'm still a little too wired and sore," she says. Plus she won't be able to watch him if she's sleeping. Irrational, she knows.

"You should still sleep, you've been up for twenty-six straight hours." He hops onto the bed next to her, aligns his body to hers and looks over her shoulder at Max. "I get it though. He's pretty cute."

She turns, and runs a hand down his scruff. He looks exhausted, and a five o'clock shadow always makes him look like a Mafia capo. He needs to shave. "We made a cute kid," she agrees, then kisses him — close-mouthed, since he stinks of cigars and probably had some sort of whiskey as well, knowing Charlie Skinner. "Thank you," she murmurs, shifting into his shoulder. God, sleep does sound like a good idea.

"What the hell are you thanking me for? You just delivered a baby," he says. "I was just a … fucking bystander."

"I told him we would try and cut back on swearing," she says seriously. "And … for, you know. Stuff."

"Stuff?"

"There's a lot, so yes, stuff is going to have to cover it for now," she yawns. She wants to say something gushy, tell him how much he means to her, but she can't articulate it.

"Thank you for stuff too," he grins stupidly. "Seriously. Today, yesterday, tomorrow … Thank you."

"You freaking out yet?"

"Only 50 percent. Running on endorphins right now," he yawns. "You think he's going to be producer or on-air talent?"

"He will be an economist, thank you very much. There are three generations of economists on my side you've gotta work against," she says indignantly, before passing out.

They bring Max home the next afternoon, slipping out through the parking garage (Don carries Max, Alison carries all her things, and she sits in a wheelchair against her will). Her parents arrive that afternoon, and Max, still unused to and unimpressed by the world, cries as he is passed from grandparent to grandparent. They set up the bassinet in their room, and everyone passes out around 8 p.m.

Of course, Max wakes them up, wailing, by 10 p.m. "I'll get it," Don volunteers blearily.

"Yeah, when you grow breasts," she snorts, scooping him up. He quiets a little once she picks him up, and she's proud of her burgeoning maternal abilities. "Here, hold him —" she shifts him to Don so she can peel down her tank top. Once ready, she takes Max back. "You should sleep," she says. "One of us should."

"Eh. Come here," he says, leaning against the headboard. She scoots back against his chest, and he links his hands gingerly around her still-distended (and tender) stomach. Kisses her neck sleepily. Max attaches himself (this is getting easier, but is still odd and painful) and starts nursing. "You know, I did some math yesterday. Guess how long it's been since we started dating?"

She thinks for a second. "Twenty-eight months."

"You were supposed to guess!"

"That's addition and I took calculus in eighth grade," she protests. Then she pauses. "You know, if we go with twenty-eight, that means I'm officially right. We started dating in November."

"I'll give you a pass on that argument, even though our first date was clearly to 'inoteca in December, since you just delivered a baby."

"And because I'm right. It was the fight outside Hang Chew's."

"I'm sorry for making you cry then, by the way. I don't think I ever said that."

"You're forgiven," she laughs quietly. "Anyways. Did you?"

He laughs too. "Not in my wildest dreams," he says. "But, damn, am I glad we did."

She smiles, in awe and at peace and so tired her eyelids are sticking to her eyeballs. "Yeah," she stares at her son. Their son — half him, half her. Entirely wondrous. "Me too."


	28. Let it be me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand...this is it! The last chapter. I can't believe I'm actually posting it, and am incredibly grateful for everyone who stuck it out. It's been nearly sixteen months, and I really appreciate everyone who took the time to comment and message and like. This ended up being a far bigger endeavor than I anticipated — all in all, I wrote 350+ pages, so a big undertaking for all of us :)
> 
> In a few days, I'll start posting updated versions of each chapter. They'll have tighter dialogue + a few updated speeches, but no hugely substantial changes. I'll also have commentary on the chapters (just a couple paragraphs about what I was thinking, etc), just because going through and re-reading them I remembered a lot of stuff. Consider it the bonus edition :) Finally, I'll post a chapter listing all the chapters in order, in case anyone wants to read all 150K words chronologically. It'll also include some "liner notes" about each of the epigraphs and why I chose them.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for sticking with it! You're amazing and encouraging and fabulous.
> 
> There comes a time, a time in everyone's life
> 
> Where nothin' seems to go your way
> 
> Where nothing seems to turn out right
> 
> There may come a time, you just can't seem to find your place
> 
> For every door you open, seems like you get two slammed in your face
> 
> That's when you need someone, someone that you can call
> 
> And when all your faith is gone, feels like you can't go on
> 
> Let it be me, let it be me
> 
> If it's a friend you need
> 
> -"Let It Be Me," Ray LaMontagne

November

It's frigging freezing outside, but the staff of Hang Chew's has the heat cranked up almost to eighty degrees, and combined with the number of bodies in the space (it's a Friday, so the ACN crowd is sharing the bar with normal people who work normal hours and go out at normal times), the windows are fogged and the atmosphere inside is almost humid. But Don doesn't mind — compared to the biting winds outside, in fact, it's practically welcome. It's been a bear of a week, with Syria and the Greek economic crisis and a million other things causing long days and sleepless nights, and all he wants is a drink in a place with a roof.

He presses through the crowds, not really seeing anyone he knows. This isn't terribly surprising, since the News Night crew — those without dates and lives, at least — had headed over exactly at nine, and they may have turned in for the night after two hours. He eventually spots Maggie and Tess clustered at a hightop with a few of the younger guys from the control room, and then Mac drinking alone at the bar. Drinking with Mac it is.

"Where is everybody?" he asks, voice slightly elevated, as he slides in next to her.

She shrugs. "Jim went home to Skype with Hallie; Neal met a girl in a … very stylish skirt, and after twenty-four minutes of conversation they headed out, which I think is a record for him; Sloan is out with the consultant from AIG again; and Will left immediately from the studio in a fresh suit, which I can only assume means he's out again with whomever he's dating behind my back. Do you think they're getting serious? I normally wouldn't think so, but the suit has me thinking so."

"Sloan's going out with a consultant from AIG? Again? As in, this is not the first time that it's happened?" He knows that's not what Mac wants him to focus on — Mac wants him to focus on the fact that Will is dating someone behind her back (and the wording there is absolutely insane, but also kind of true) — but he really would prefer not to.

Mac looks at him, lips pursed, a little angry at him for stealing her relationship-induced existential angst. "She met him at a Forbes party a few weeks ago. He asked her out, using his words and leaving little room for confusion, on a normal and proper adult date. Unsurprisingly, she said yes."

"Okay, so Will? Going on a date where he feels the need to wear a fresh suit? That sounds serious," he mocks back. Mac deflates into a pout, and he continues, "I thought she was dating Nina Howard's book agent?"

"No, no, that was ages ago, man," Mac says.

"Good. Book agents murder their wives, you know."

"Ques-tion," Mac cracks the word into two distinct syllables, her voice crisp and loud and businesslike (and just the tiniest bit drunk).

"Answer?"

"Why haven't you asked Sloan out yet, again?"

He hedges. "I'm … She's a friend, and a coworker, and I respect her. And … She just seems to be dating a lot, which is her prerogative, but she also — you know the types of guys she dates."

"I know the type — the type that she chooses to, because she's a grown-ass woman. Look at you. Have you even dated anyone since Maggie?"

"I've been busy."

"You've been knocked on your ass. It's fine, it really is. Somehow that relationship — which was awful for both of you — spun into something significant so you wouldn't feel like a failure, and it's OK to nurse your wounds for a while. And between that and Troy Davis and me asking you to take on bunches more responsibility and I'm guessing you feel some guilt for what happened to Maggie in Uganda —"

"How could I not?" he asks, his voice sounding way more vulnerable than he would like.

"I don't know, I honestly don't. But it's not your fault, Don, it's really not. And you don't deserve this punishment you keep inflicting on yourself."

"That's helpful, thanks."

"I'm going to tell you the same advice I told Jim, to gather —"

"Oh, when you told him to tell my girlfriend that he love her and would prefer she dump me for him? Please. Continue."

"I care about you, a lot, Don. A lot, a lot, a lot. I want to see all of you — you and Sloan and Maggie and Jim and Tess, Martin, Neal, everyone — happy. Fulfilled, professionally and personally. I want you to benefit from my mistakes, because it makes me sick to see all of you repeating some godawful variation of my life, like mine and Will's mistakes are a record stuck on loop." She takes a drink. "I made a vow this year to quit meddling in your lives, but I want you all to start living. And right now it seems like none of you are. Especially you."

"I feel like you just voted me chump of the year, without my knowledge."

Mac heaves a great sigh and leans back. "Why haven't you asked her out? Seriously. Are you scared?"

He shakes his head, quickly. "I'm her friend. I'm also, not infrequently, her boss."

"That's stopped absolutely no one at ACN, including you and Maggie, and you know that."

He shakes his head. He knows, on some level, that he should — that he should just get it done. Lord knows he certainly wants to, has wanted to since August, and she seems like she'd be receptive. Because you never asked me out. Right? That's a sign. She wants him to.

But still. If he's going to ask her out, he's not going to just 'get it done' — he knows that. He needs to get it done in a spectacular fashion. Because it's Sloan and that's what she deserves, dammit.

It's a big 'if,' though. Don has a killer news instinct, but producing fits him so well because it's inherently a fear-driven job. You consider all the possibilities, you cover all eventualities, you find the path of least resistance to putting together a broadcast that does not fall apart on air. Don's not proud of it, but he knows that he's risk-averse. Underneath the yelling and the sarcasm and the impatience, he's cautious. He gets away with it because he's smart, and he's ambitious, and he's proud as hell. But his default is to hug the curb, to take the stairs down instead of dive, to be the guy holding it all together when it goes to hell. If left to his own devices he'd rather do a safe, good show than whatever the fuck Mac is consistently doing with Will (he thinks that has changed a bit now, but he knows himself well). Maggie — even with his half-assed commitment, with the breakups, with the avoiding the big topics — had honestly been his most adult relationship. Life with his dad had taught him not to hope too much, to expect too much, to need too much. You would only get hurt. He knew all of this meant he wasn't a particularly great person, but it meant he wasn't at risk for being a failure. He could get by — not with a whole lot — but with his head held high. Asking Sloan out — with because-you-never-asked-me-out, and their work partnership, and their friendship — it probably wasn't worth it to try.

Because Sloan … Sloan kind of makes him want to be … better. Not even different, necessarily, but just … better. He's pretty sure her you're-a-good-guy-who-thinks-he's-a-bad guy assessment of him is wildly off, since Sloan's an optimistic, idealistic person who believes that the world is essentially a good place, that people who worked hard got their due (except her. She always has a reason why she doesn't deserve the best, which is just pure insanity). But he likes that optimistic quality about her. That is … attractive. And he likes talking with her. And generally, he just likes being around her. When he's producing her show, she makes him a better producer. When he's being her friend, he's a more considerate and empathetic friend. When she's being his friend, he pays it forward — is nicer to Mac, more compassionate with Maggie, more open with Will, easier on Elliot. He's just ... better. He needs her in his life, period.

And that, he knows, means that trying to be anything more with Sloan is the riskiest proposition of them all. He's a practical guy, even cynical, and he can always picture the end of a relationship. It's not often pretty — he usually banks on him fucking it up as the final straw — but it's manageable. If he started something with Sloan, it would eventually end (he knows himself), and that would be a disaster. If he doesn't try, he doesn't fail.

And he can't have failure, not with her. So. He's drinking with Mac and she's out with a consultant with AIG.

As if summoned by some deity with a terrific sense of humor and also a warrant for Don's death, Sloan suddenly crashes into the chair on the other side of Mac, busily signaling to Chelsea and ordering a Cosmo.

"I thought you had that second date with the consultant tonight?" Mac asks, chewing on her straw in a blatant attempt to hide her glee. "Also, a cosmo, that's a surprisingly fruity drink choice for you."

"Yes, Kenzie. It is. But it's been A Day — capital letters absolutely intended — so I am being spontaneous and ordering the brightly colored girly drink. Any questions?"

"Yes — so the second date didn't go well?"

Sloan heaves a sigh. "The upside of dating a revolving door of local gomers, I've decided, is that one develops a finely honed Spidey Sense that goes beep beep beep whenever you're getting too close to a creep."

"Spidey's Spidey Sense tingled; it didn't make noise," Don points out. He feels comfortable pointing that out; it's a perfectly neutral observation.

"Thank you, Peter Parker."

"That's not nearly as insulting as I think you intended it to be; I was always a fan of his." He's trying desperately to tap-dance the conversation away from Sloan and this analyst, who is, he's decided, named something like Scott or Donovan and was a college lacrosse player at a seriously jocked-up, but also insanely competitive, college. He's putting money on Duke but Stanford or Columbia wouldn't surprise him either. "Seriously. Journalist, superhero, not as boring as Superman, who was totally lame — the guy had it all."

Sloan continues to stare around Mac at him, with an expression that indicates he's grown another five heads. "Nerd," she pronounces, and turns to Mac. "And yes. Nothing in particular, I just got …"

"Hinky vibes?" Mac supplies knowingly.

"Yes," Sloan confirms, relieved. She's ten percent more expressive than usual — Don assumes she's been drinking. "Asshole

vibes. Too slick, or something? Anyways. I said I had to wake up at five tomorrow for a live shoot and sent him home."

"Well, whatever, I thought his muscles were too big anyways. Nobody who makes that much money should have that much time left to work out," Mac declares, and Don gets very interested in his beverage. "I'm going to go check on Maggie. It's been forty-five minutes and I feel I need to."

They're left alone. "I'm sorry the date sucked," he offers, finally, officially taking the silence from not-quite-awkward to terribly charged.

She finishes the rest of her cosmo. "Are you?" she challenges. "I mean, honestly?"

"I — yes. Of course." It's been awkward, this getting-back-to-friends business. Once, pre-Maggie, they were close. She gave him much-needed crap for his many short relationships and told him to grow up; he told her not to call her dipshit ex and that basically every guy she dated was an asshole (which they were, right there on top). A long time ago, he would have known about this over-muscled, probably-Duke-educated, definitely-named-Scott consultant the day after she met him. But his relationship with Maggie had cratered many things including, not unsurprisingly, their friendship. She'd quietly made herself scare and now, post-one-year-plus-of-drifting, post-you-never-asked-me-out, post-breakup, he feels it's impossible to go back. He thought they were doing OK at carving out something new — he helped her with Zane, she made fun of his chair tires — but he's not sure. "I'm — Sloan. Above all, we're ... friends, right? After —"

"That thing and that time we'd never mention? Among many other things? Right. We are. Chelsea! Another?" A cosmo appears, and Sloan downs most of it, carefully lining the second impractically-designed glass up carefully next to the first.

"After everything," he says, suddenly unsure of where the conversation is going. He'd like to be more with her, he thinks, but honestly, the thing that terrifies him most about asking her out is the fact that it opens to door to one day losing her.

"We're friends, Don," she says, practically spitting out the words in an attempt to be reassuring.

"Great," he says, though her tone does not make it sound like something remotely appealing. He orders another drink.

Waits till it comes.

Fiddles with the straw.

"You know, you say that, but —"

"Did you really think I was joking? When you said you took my comment as a joke?"

"I — no, Sloan, but it's not like I was in a place to do anything about it." He was with Maggie. Why — How did she even get back on this topic?

"Right, but you could've said anything else. A joke? That was just demeaning."

"I — I didn't know what else to say."

"So you didn't think it was a joke?"

"No. I thought, it was, you know, you thought it was your last day."

"Then why say that?"

"What would you have me say, huh, Sloan? That I was sorry for not asking you out? Should I have dumped Maggie right then instead of breaking up a month later? Dropped my whole life? I'm confused, Sloan. You'd just given a speech, a good speech, and I was unprepared. And I — I was just giving you an out." He's also unprepared now. She's absolutely confusing.

"If I said that today, what would you say? Just — curious."

"Are you drunk? You seem drunk."

"No? Yes. Answer the question, Keefer."

"I — don't know."

"If I asked you out today — you're broken up with Maggie, as far as I can tell you've been a monk for the past three months, which is pretty unusual for you — what would you say?"

Fucking Christ. "I don't know, Sloan," he fumbles. He's confused. He wouldn't just … This wouldn't be for sex, with her.

"I mean, you say you like me as a person, so do you not find me attractive?" Sloan ponders out loud, all but talking to her glass. "If so, that's OK! I'm just confused, because you've had opportunities. I've … There have been moments, you know, where I just … thought there was something, but I also thought that Will was totally telling the truth when he said that he voted for Kerry in 2004. I know I'm bad at reading cues, I get it."

"OK, I'm not even going to answer whether or not I think you're attractive, because you seriously are just fishing for compliments on that one. Sloan, you're the smartest person I know, and you notice everything. You're incredibly logical. Just because you don't get people's motivations sometimes, because you're —" he stops and gestures.

"Because I'm what?" she insists, turning in towards him.

He sighs. "Because you're optimistic, because you believe the best in everyone, because you're so goddamn good at being you that you sometimes forget that other people can't just … live aspirationally, the way that you do, and you sometimes don't get that — none, none of that makes you bad at reading clues. You're a … freaking detective! Quit deflecting."

She sits back, a look of consternation on her face. "You were giving yourself an out, too," she finally deduces. He spreads his hands in a kind of hey, whatever, gesture. "You really have gotten yourself convinced that you're the bad guy here, haven't you?"

"What do you mean? Of course … Look at the facts," he says, irritated. "I ask Maggie to move in with me for a bunch of legitimately terrible reasons, we break up for decent reasons, she ends up watching a kid die in Africa and is now in some sort of emotional free-fall. There was a spiral, Sloan, and I set it into motion."

Sloan stares at him, again, like he's grown three heads. "Yeah, and Mac set it into motion when she okayed the Africa trip, and Jim set it into motion when he decided to peace to New Hampshire instead of dealing with life, and Will set it into motion when he fucking hired her. You feel more guilt than anyone I've ever met who isn't Jewish, you know that, right?"

"You work in news; I really don't see how that is possible," he grouses.

She is still studying him, that little perplexed crease appearing between her eyes. "So if I'm not wrong in thinking there is or was … something, and you were giving us both outs, and I've essentially asked you out three times, including right now … You really do believe that you're a bad guy. You really do," she sounds a little bit astonished.

"Ok, first off, Ms. Math, I count two times, including now, and you've never actually asked me out. You've just gotten angry at me for not asking you out. Which is not nearly the same."

"A teacher? A coach? An ex? Your dad?" she guesses, ignoring his words. He wonders if she asked him out once before that conversation in August and, if so, if he was actually too dense to catch on. Regardless, the original purpose for asking these questions is forgotten and she's now genuinely worried about his tender psyche.

"None of the above," he lies, throwing down money for his three (four? five?) drinks of the night and her two.

"You're a good guy, Don," she insists, sliding off her stool. "Seriously. What do I need to do to convince you of that?" He knows she's going to follow him, continue this conversation, so he shrugs on his coat and starts walking. He pauses at the door, holds it open for her.

"Sloan," he groans, slipping a hand to the small of her back and guiding her outside. Holy fuck, it's freezing, and he doesn't know where they're going: He lives a 15-minute walk west, and she's a 20-minute cab ride south to the Financial District. "You have absolutely zero proof for your argument, and I have thirty-four years of experiences being me to make an assessment about whether or not I'm an asshole."

"You also have whatever shit somebody said to you rattling around up there, so excuse me if I think I'm a slightly more objective judge of your character, Keefer," she argues back.

"You know what, that doesn't exactly make me more confident," he says, finally fed up with the argument. He stops, stomping his feet to avoid shivering. "Sloan, you're … impressive. You're the smartest person I know, by a mile and a half, you're … stunningly attractive in a way that normal people aren't, let alone economists; you speak six languages; you've run a sub-four marathon; you donate to charity and find time to volunteer despite having two jobs; you vote in the stupid elections like district alderman and condo-board president; you're funny; you're kind; you don't deal with bullshit and you're not afraid to be you. You stand up for what you think is right, even when it's the stupidest move you could make. You are a good friend, to everyone, to me, to Mac, Will, everyone. Even Maggie! Who you should, based on what you're saying, kind of hate." He notices tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but whether that's from cold or what she assumes is (and what he knows sounds like) a rejection, he's not sure. "My point is, you deserve to be in a relationship with someone who's amazing. Who holds the boombox over his head, who races through the streets of New York at midnight on New Year's Eve, who pursues you long enough to figure out the reason you didn't meet him at the top of the Empire State Building is because you're paralyzed —"

"OK, I hate to interrupt, but neither Tom Hanks nor Meg Ryan was paralyzed in Sleepless in Seattle, and I have no idea what the other two movies you're referencing are."

What the fuck? "OK, A, I was talking about An Affair to Remember, which was what Sleepless in Seattle is based on, B, how have you seen Sleepless in Seattle and not When Harry Met Sally, which is a hundred and eighty-five percent better than Sleepless in Seattle, and C, what the fuck do you mean you haven't seen Say Anything?"

"It came out when I was, I don't know, seven?"

"The Wealth of Nations was published when you were, I don't know, negative four hundred, but you've read that at least six times."

"That's a classic!"

"So is this!"

"Well, clearly I'm not as perfect as you apparently think I am!"

"Ooooooh, you're not perfect. You're easily the most stubborn person I know, for starters. By like, a lot. I can never tell who you trust and who you don't, because you're maddeningly hard to read," he says. He feels a headache coming on again. A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it quickly away, and — holy shit, he just made her cry. He has seen her cry exactly once, and it's terrifying, but it also, on some level, confirms his basic argument about why dating her would be a bad idea. So like the idiot he is, he soldiers on. "And — and this is relevant — you're impressive, and you deserve someone that deserves you, but you keep dating jerks and jackasses that aren't good enough for you, and I can't figure out why! And that's important, since you've built your entire case for why you want to date me on the fact that you think I'm a 'good guy,' but every guy you like is an absolute jerk. Do you not think you deserve someone who would treat you right, or do you just assume that anyone that is a good guy — a genuinely good guy, not whatever the fuck you think I am — would cheat on you and leave you, since a not-great guy like Topher did? I've watched you spend two years getting over him, and then date a parade of bad-guy losers, and that... coupled with the words you keep saying about … me, that doesn't help your case that I'm someone you think you should be dating. You like assholes, and you like me, so … I am applying logic."

She's quiet for a second. A tear seems to literally freeze mid-trickle down her cheek as she steels herself to stop crying. "Well that was, you know, incredibly offensive."

"It wasn't supposed to be —"

"Really? Cause you just told me that the reason you won't ask me out is because either I have absolutely shitty taste in guys, which means that you're a shitty guy too, or that I have an incredibly low opinion of myself, both of which make me think that you think that, on some level, I'm actually an idiot—"

"—I absolutely do not, I'm just saying that you deserve someone better —"

"No, you're saying that I don't know what I deserve and that you, Don Keefer, knows better than I do, despite the fact that I, Sloan Sabbith, can't possibly understand you, since I am not you. So let's get one — no, two — things straight. First, you need to get off the fucking sword that you fell on from atop your high horse. Second, my judgement is just fine. Yeah, sometimes it doesn't work out with whomever I'm dating, but at least I'm taking chances on people, unlike you, who bounced from one two-week relationship to the next until one of those was accidentally with someone who worked for you so it got complicated, and then you didn't know how to deal with the relationship, or your feelings, or her. Your entire dating history is summed up by you randomly tumbling into a girl sideways and hoping that she breaks up with you before you get hurt. And third —"

"You said two."

"And third," she says murderously, "I am at no point getting in a car or taking a drink from some guy with prison tattoos on his forearms. The guys I date are perfectly normal when we start dating and when things start making me feel off — whether, yes, it's Topher cheating on me or Scott just giving off asshole vibes tonight — I leave. I don't give people second chances, I don't stand by my men. If they don't deserve me, they don't get me."

"I'm sorry," he says quickly (he knew

the dipshit was named Scott). "Really, I am. I … I did not mean it the way it came out, and I deserved … all of that."

Her anger deflates. "Don, you have a great opinion of me, which is really flattering and probably not entirely deserved. So I'm allowed to form my own maybe-not-deserved opinion of you. And after knowing you for three years, I think I know you decently well, whether or not you think so. I know that, yes, you can be sarcastic, and rude, and you can be a jerk when you're stressed, and you often yell when it's not entirely necessary. But I also know that you work hard, that you try and do the right thing, but you especially try to the thing that's right for everyone else and not for you; that you frequently take on tons of extra responsibility for everyone else and crap from them without complaining; that you sell yourself short; that you always try to do too much; and you actually care way, way too much about people close to you, and you're terrified of losing them. And a lot of those things are actually things that are also really, really annoying too, but I understand that there are good things about you and not-so-good things about you. Despite those not-so-good things, I still like you a lot as a person. And I get to choose who I like and who I would date, and so, just for the record, if you ever — well, decently soon, I'm not waiting around for you here — but if you, in the near future, get your head out of your ass long enough to figure your shit out, you should know that I would choose you too." She stares at him for a second, then stuffs her be-gloved hands under her armpits and shivers for warmth. "I'm getting a cab. Have a good night, Don."

"Sloan," he calls as she steps off the curb and raises her arm.

"What, Don?" she groans, turning to face him as he jogs up to her. A cab slides to her side.

He's not actually sure, what. He is, in fact, fucking terrified. Because that conversation felt like it, like a moment that, in twenty years, he would thinking of as one of the two or three most important conversations in his adult life. Wherever he ends up and whatever he does and whoever he does it with, it will be because this night is significant, this night demarcated his life into a before this moment and an after this moment. They cannot go back, and going forward, they cannot be the same. You-never-asked-me-out was a blip compared to this. Their friendship had survived that. But going forward, he could either try and have her in all of his life, or one or both of them would inevitably start looking for jobs in another city soon, and she would be in none of it.

(Not that that couldn't — wouldn't — happen eventually, them and this falling apart. He is fully aware of that. But their friendship is dead already otherwise. This, as-is, is a breakup, just without any of the good stuff.)

So he gets to the good stuff.

He kisses her.

It's not a perfect kiss — he's a little drunk and a lot terrified, so everything is swimmy and he's sure he's probably sucking at her bottom lip a little too much. And the weather and the fact that it's probably been hours since she put on lipstick means her lips are chapped and cold. But after her shock dissipates, she reciprocates easily, her hands raising to grip at his elbows. It's not one of the top five kisses of all time, but it settles into something really, really nice, and he moves his hand to her lower back to pull her even closer. He does not want to stop kissing her, and based on her reaction, she is clearly okay with that as well.

The cabbie honks. "You getting in or what?" he yells. Fucking New Yorkers.

Sloan pulls back, breathless. "Yeah!" she says, "One sec."

"It's cold, lady."

She turns to him. "He's right. It's freezing out here. Want to come back to my place for a drink?"

He hesitates. "I should —"

"Don," she interrupts. "You should come back to my place for a drink." She bites her lip — the first signal that maybe she's as nervous as he is.

He looks at her for a second, then nods. "Yeah. I should." He takes her hand, and she lets go of the breath she's holding, and breaks into one of her big Julia Roberts smiles, the real smile with teeth that she uses infrequently. He's coached her, over the years, helped her develop a practiced, inviting, friendly-but-distant, smile for the air, for schmoozing, for loser ex-boyfriends and for trying friends. This isn't it. At all.

He knows it's crazy, but he genuinely wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life trying to get her to smile that way, again and again and again.

He wonders if, now, he might actually have that chance.

Against his better, practiced, cautious instincts, he thinks he might.


End file.
